The Enterprise Strikes Back
by D. Marshall
Summary: Star Trek/Star Wars crossover. The Enterprise encounters two stranded starfighters from a galaxy far, far away.
1. Chapter 1

**The Enterprise Strikes Back**

by David Marshall

**1**

Nestled in the cockpits of their respective Jedi Starfighters, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were on the run from an overpowering flotilla of vulture droids and the looming threat of the _Invisible Hand_, a gargantuan Separatist warship under the command of the notorious General Grievous.

A deadly barrage of bright-green laser fire hounded the two small, wedge-shaped vessels on all sides. A consummate pilot, Anakin deftly evaded most incoming assaults, but Obi-Wan, who deplored flying in all its forms, was having much greater difficulty staving off the bombardment.

"My rear deflectors are down, Anakin," said the Jedi Master into his mouthpiece, as a sudden jarring impact rocked him in his seat. A shrill alarm began to sound and his control console flashed crimson. "There are too many of them on my tail; I'm not going to make it back to the freighter in one piece. Go on without me."

Skillfully manipulating his control yoke to tilt the wings of his ship away from incoming enemy fire, Anakin tensed in his seat. "You won't get rid of me that easily, Master. Stay close to my wing. I'll protect you."

"We're in deep space, Anakin!" said Obi-Wan despairingly. "Do as I say or we'll _both _be blasted into ion particles! That's an order!"

"Yes, Master. Please stop talking. You're breaking my concentration."

With deceptive ease, Anakin cartwheeled his starfighter over the top of Obi-Wan's, targeted two vulture droids that were swooping to intercept them, and squeezed his firing triggers. The mechanical warships exploded in a blinding flash of sparks and short-lived blue flame.

"Nice shooting," Obi-Wan commented.

"Thank you, Master," said Anakin.

Suddenly, R2-D2, the dome-headed utility droid wedged into an external socket outside Anakin's cockpit window, emitted a yelping noise.

"Artoo is detecting a strange energy void in quadrant five-one zero," said Anakin, flipping switches on his command console to recharge his weapons. "Could be a way out of here."

"Or a quick way to get ourselves killed." Obi-Wan had detected the same anomaly. His scanners were still functional. Just about.

"Maybe we should wait for the Senate to vote on its safety before we proceed," said Anakin dryly.

"Sarcasm is unbecoming of a Jedi …"

"Unless you're the one being sarcastic, you mean?" Anakin countered.

'Exactly," said Obi-Wan.

Anakin chuckled. "Follow me."

As the _Invisible Hand _closed in for the kill like a great shark homing in on two wounded porpoise, Anakin took the lead, guiding Obi-Wan into the heart of the swirling black-and-blue energy vortex. In an instant, the two spear-shaped vessels had vanished.

* * *

Captain Jonathan Archer and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed were walking side-by-side down a corridor of the starship _Enterprise, _discussing the state of the ship's weapons systems.

"How long will the tactical array be offline?" Archer asked Reed, concerned by the news he'd just received.

"No longer than five days, sir," Reed replied somewhat hesitantly.

"Five _days_?" Shocked, Archer stopped in his tracks and stared keenly at Reed. "And what if we're attacked by a Klingon warbird tomorrow, or the day after? Should I expect them to be chivalrous and wait patiently until we're ready to fight back?"

"Trust me, sir. When the new DX-9 weapons upgrades have been properly installed, you'll be glad we tolerated the inconvenience. The new torpedo targeting system alone will make this the most imposing human vessel ever to grace uncharted space."

Archer squinted at Reed. Although a good man and loyal crewman in every respect, his First Tactical Officer sometimes spoke about deadly artillery with an affection that made Archer uneasy. "Sometimes I worry that you enjoy your work a little bit too much, Lieutenant."

"Surely that's better than doing a half-arsed job, sir?" the British man offered wryly.

Archer cracked a smile. "Five days? I think I can keep us from butting too many heads for that long."

Suddenly a female voice interrupted over the ship's speaker system. "_Hoshi to Captain Archer. Please report to the bridge immediately."_

Reed swallowed, the confidence draining from his face. "I'm sure it's nothing serious."

* * *

Ensign Hoshi Sato gave Archer an update the moment he arrived on the bridge.

"Captain, I'm detecting two small craft several hundred kilometers off the starboard bow."

T'Pol spoke next, the Vulcan's tone characteristically impassive. "Their transceiver signatures are like nothing I've ever detected, yet the life-forms on board appear to be human."

"Can we hail them?" Archer asked.

"No," said Hoshi. "Their communications are unresponsive – most likely damaged."

T'Pol scanned her data screen. "Sensors reveal that both vessels are extremely low on fuel, and we're light-years from the nearest star base. Unless we intervene, I'm afraid they won't survive."

Archer considered his options, then after a brief delay, said, "Sub-commander, please arrange to have these two drifters brought onboard. Let's hear what they have to say for themselves."

"Yes, sir," said T'Pol.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, word had reached Jonathan Archer that the occupants of the two recovered alien vessels were alive and well. Nevertheless, they had been sent straight to Sickbay for a cautionary checkup, and this was where Archer and T'Pol decided to make their acquaintance.

Doctor Phlox greeted them the moment they entered through the automatic glass doors. "Captain. Sub-commander," he said, acknowledging each in turn.

The room was brightly illuminated as usual. Archer made a note of the two strangers sitting on adjacent bunks behind Phlox.

The Denobulan doctor spoke quietly so he could not be overheard. "I'm pleased to report that both men appear to be in excellent health. What's more, preliminary bio-molecular scans confirm that they are indeed human – virtually identical to your species in every way. Though, I did discover extremely elevated motor-neural synaptical readings."

Archer frowned. "Meaning?"

"To use an archaic, rather juvenile, human metaphor, they both appear to be stronger, faster and smarter than the average bear."

Archer lowered his voice another octave. "Do you think they're dangerous?"

"Any life-form with half a brain cell can be dangerous, Captain," said Phlox wisely.

With T'Pol by his side, Archer approached the two strangers, who had been watching him with ill-concealed interest as he had spoken to Phlox. The two men rose in greeting.

They were plainly dressed in long robes and bland tunics. One of the men was of average height with kind blue eyes, short neat auburn hair and a beard lining his strong jaw. The other was taller, younger, with longish blond hair and a scar on his right cheek. They certainly seemed to be human, but Archer wouldn't be adopting their fashion sense any time soon.

"My name is Jonathan Archer. I'm the captain of this ship. We found you drifting in open space and thought you might appreciate a little assistance."

"Where are we?" said the younger man abruptly. There was impatience scrawled across his handsome face. "I demand you allow us to contact the Jedi Council immediately and –"

"Patience, Anakin," said the bearded man to his companion.

He turned to face Archer with an apologetic expression. "I am Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, and my tempestuous counterpart is Anakin Skywalker. Regrettably, being dubbed the 'Chosen One' by the holonet appears to have swelled his head." He shot a mildly reproachful glance over his shoulder at Anakin. "Good manners used to be among his vast repertoire of talents, I assure you."

Anakin averted his gaze. "I apologize, Master," he said sheepishly.

Master? At least Archer had discovered who was in charge.

"No harm done," he said. "You must both be extremely tired. I won't use too much of your time right now. If I could just ask a few questions …"

"Certainly," said Obi-Wan.

"My chief engineer informs me that the design of your ships is like nothing seen on Earth," said Archer, "but my doctor tells me you're both human. It seems like a contradiction. Care to fill in the gaps?"

"Earth?" said Obi-Wan Kenobi, stroking his beard. "I'm afraid I have never heard of that star system."

"Earth is a _planet_," Archer clarified. "The human home world." He examined the men's faces for any sign of recognition or deception, but found neither.

"You mentioned a _Jedi _Council," he continued. "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the term."

Obi-Wan and Anakin exchanged disbelieving looks.

The awkward silence was suddenly and irrevocably shattered, however, by the impromptu arrival of a dustbin-sized, dome-headed robot on tracks, which erupted out of a curtained cubicle nearby. The blue-and-white dome portion spun wildly; the thing was beeping, hooting and trilling like an excited puppy.

"What the …" Archer took a step back.

"Ah, yes," said Doctor Phlox, rejoining the conversation. "This excitable contraption is a droid, apparently."

"His _name_ is Artoo," said Anakin tetchily.

Phlox was unperturbed. "With the, um, designation R2-D2. A moderately advanced form of artificial intelligence, I believe."

Artoo trilled indignantly at the use of the word "moderately".

"Fascinating," said T'Pol, crouching down to observe the bipedal robot.

"Quite," said Archer, less impressed. "But why isn't this – _Artoo – _being stored elsewhere? This is a Sickbay, for sick _people_."

Phlox was eager to explain. In fact he could hardly keep a boyish smirk from his lips. "Oh, I believe Commander Tucker tried to have a look at him. But it turns out that the little fellow is remarkably willful – and a surprisingly adept combatant. He refused to leave his owner's side. Mister Tucker has the scratches to prove it."

"Why is it making that noise?" Archer asked, wincing as R2-D2 produced another ear-splitting series of illegible beeps and whistles.

"He's trying to be helpful, aren't you Artoo?" said Anakin, patting the droid's exterior plating affectionately.

"Helpful?" said T'Pol, who had resorted to covering her highly sensitive ears with her palms.

"Artoo's memory core contains a history of holographic transmissions," Anakin elaborated. "He thinks showing them to you might help you understand who we are and where we come from."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Anakin," said Obi-Wan, turning his back on Captain Archer. "We're at war. If any sensitive information falls into the clutches of Count Dooku …"

"I sense no deceit in these people, Master. And I have a feeling we're a long way from Coruscant. What choice do we have?"

* * *

Captain Archer sat on his bunk watching the final minutes of a three-dimensional holographic recording that R2-D2 had been projecting onto the floor of his quarters for the past forty minutes. Obi-Wan had grudgingly agreed to lend him the droid, and, now that the small bucket of bolts had stopped screeching like a dying owl, Archer was growing quite fond of it. The technology that powered it was anything but "moderate", as Phlox had suggested; and since Archer had voiced this opinion aloud, the droid seemed to have taken a liking to him.

The high-definition hologram stood about half a meter high and emitted a faint blue aura. From what Archer could gather, the present exchange was between Obi-Wan Kenobi and a very small, old, pointy-eared alien named Yoda, who was apparently the human's immediate superior.

"… _must not underestimate General Grievous, Obi-Wan_," Yoda was saying. He had a funny, back-to-front way of speaking, but the sound quality was pristine. "_Devious, he is. Trained by Count Dooku, he was. Advise you to wait for backup before attempting to infiltrate his ship, the Council does."_

_"I understand, Master," _said the prerecorded voice of Obi-Wan. "_But Anakin is adamant that we can defeat Grievous alone and end this war if we act now, catch him off guard."_

"_Hm, a trap I sense, Master Obi-Wan. Rash and self-confident, young Skywalker has become. However, trust you to make the right decision, I do."_

_"Thank you, Master."_

_"May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan."_

_"May the Force be with you, Master. Artoo, end transmission."_

The hologram flickered and faded. Almost immediately after, the door buzzer sounded, bringing Archer back to the present.

"Come in," he said clearly.

Charles Tucker entered the room. The chief engineer looked excited. "Cap'n, I've been spending some time with one of the new arrivals and –" He stopped suddenly, his face paling when he spotted R2-D2. "What's … what's that thing doing here?"

The look of terror on Trip's face amused the captain. Climbing to his feet, he said, "Don't worry, Commander. Artoo here has been regaling me with some useful information about our robe-wearing guests."

Tucker looked less than reassured. "Just make sure it stays on that side of the room. It might look harmless enough now, but I've seen all the gizmos and thingamajigs it uses to stab and prod and poke when it throws a temper tantrum."

R2-D2 chirruped innocently.

Archer smiled. "From everything I've been able to learn so far, Mister Kenobi and Mister Skywalker are from ... somewhere else ..." He was afraid that if he gave form to his thoughts, they'd become a deck of cards, swept away by the right hand of Reason.

"Cap'n?" Trip promted.

"Another galaxy, Trip! Even a parallel dimension, with different races, integrated cultures … It's incredible. Just incredible." He felt like a schoolboy on Christmas Day. In Archer's opinion, any Starfleet Captain who hadn't taken the job to unravel the mysteries of this marvellous universe was unworthy of the rank. "This could be the greatest discovery in the history of Starfleet."

"You think new cultures are impressive?" said Trip, still eyeing Artoo as if he suspected the little droid might have a psychotic meltdown at any moment. "Follow me, Cap'n. Wait 'till you get a loada this."

* * *

Author's Note: My punctuation and spelling are British, not wrong. There is a difference. :P


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

R2-D2 was a deadly assassin droid, expertly disguised as a portable trash disposal unit, which would kill the entire crew of the _Enterprise _in their sleep and then commandeer the ship as part of its fiendish plot for intergalactic domination. At least that was the insightful theory Trip shared with Captain Archer as he led the way to the door of a small billet assigned to Anakin Skywalker.

Inside the cramped quarters, R2-D2 tootled happily at the sight of his master, rocking backwards and forwards briefly on his stout legs before falling silent.

Anakin stood at a window, staring out at the million pinpoints of light that were distant stars, far-off galaxies.

"I don't recognize any of these constellations," said the Jedi evenly, not yet turning to face his hosts. "Chancellor Palpatine would have the Republic believe that Coruscant is the centre of the universe. But I suppose the universe is a far larger place than even he can imagine …"

Archer was shrewd enough not interrupt his guest, who, in spite of his apparent youth, exuded an almost palpable air of authority, an indefinable self-assurance that boarded on arrogance, simmering anger. It was something in his eyes, reflected in the cold glass. They were dark and serious.

But Archer was not about to judge people based on such trivial observations. Actions were far more important than appearances. Providing these men kept their inner demons to themselves and behaved in a civil manner that would not endanger his crew, Archer saw no reason to kick up a stink.

After a few seconds, Anakin's introspection subsided. He turned, his long dark robes making him seem more dramatic, like a villain in a stage play, and he offered Archer and Trip a tight-lipped smile.

Archer took a step forward. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I hope your stay so far has been comfortable."

Anakin reported that it had by inclining his head.

Trip gave his captain a non-too-discrete elbow to prompt him to continue – something that would typically have gotten him locked in the brig. Slightly embarrassed, Archer said, "_Commander Tucker _tells me that that you have … an unusual talent, Mister Skywalker. Would you mind if I –"

Without warning, the phase pistol Archer was carrying leapt from his hip holster and, as if yanked away by an invisible fishing line, flung itself across the length of the room and settled comfortably into Anakin Skywalker's right hand. As if by magic, Archer had been disarmed.

Anakin smiled, and this time the smile reached his eyes. The effect was striking. It made him look like a different person.

Archer was stunned. "How did you … How did you do that?"

"I can do much more than that," said Anakin placidly. He let the phase pistol rest upon his open palm. Archer and Trip watched, awe-struck, as the inanimate object floated into the air and returned to its owner, who plucked it gingerly from midair.

"Can everyone where you come from do this kind of thing?" asked Archer, turning the phase pistol over in his hands and staring at it as though it were possessed, before re-holstering it.

"No," said Anakin, solemn once more. "Only the Jedi. We study our whole lives to attune our minds to the will of the Force."

"The Force?" Archer recognized the term. "That's what your friends were talking about in one of the recordings Artoo showed me. He said something like, 'May the Force go with you.'"

Anakin nodded, not bothering to correct the minor mistake. "The Force is everywhere. It surrounds us, binds us, even here, in this dimension. You just probably never realized it exits."

Archer felt no more enlightened, which must have shown on his face, because Trip took up the thread, speaking animatedly.

"It's like an energy field, Cap'n – natural power that these guys can tap into telepathically. What Anakin just did is nothin'. Earlier we were having trouble relocating the damaged starfighters in the docking bay until the other one … erm, Obi-Kenobi …"

"Obi-Wan," Anakin corrected.

"Right … until Obi used _his_ power to make the thing rise up into the air as if it were some kid's remote-controlled toy! He did in one minute what would've taken my whole team half an hour."

Archer took a moment to absorb this alarming news. An abundant, natural energy source than enabled individuals to perform amazing feats far beyond their physical limitations? If Starfleet could harness that kind of immense power, the implications were mind-blowing. The Finance Commission alone would save thousands a year on transporting cumbersome heavy-duty machinery. And that was the tip of the iceberg.

"This power … this _Force_," said Archer, feeling energized, enthralled. "Can anybody learn how to use it?"

"In theory," said Anakin, sitting down on his bunk, hands on knees, back straight. "Though it takes a great deal of practice," he added grimly. "Jedi are usually trained from a very young age. And then there's the temptation of the Dark Side …"

"That sure doesn't sound like a good thing," said Trip. "If you don't mind me sayin', you fellas seem more like religious folk than anythin' else –"

They were interrupted suddenly by Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, who materialized behind them in the doorway, his expression strangely bleak. "Captain …"

Everyone in the room turned to face him.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" said Archer distractedly. His thoughts were still ricocheting around his cranium like gas-propelled balls from a BB gun. Of course, he planned on finding a way to help these lost travelers return to their own universe, but an insatiable curiosity – about their civilization, their beliefs, and now, most of all, about this so-called _Force _– had flared within him. Archer knew he wouldn't be able to rest until that curiosity had been satisfied.

An ominous note in Malcolm's voice was the only thing that stopped Archer from blanking him out completely.

"I think you should follow me," said Reed. "All of you."

Reed had Archer's full attention now. An unpleasant tingle ran down his spine. "What's wrong?" he asked, beetling his dark-brown eyebrows.

"It's … Travis Mayweather, sir," said Reed. "He's been attacked. It's serious. Doctor Phlox says he might not survive."

Commander Tucker's animated expression became a rigid mask.

Archer felt as though he'd been struck in the stomach, but as captain, he had to take charge, stay composed. "Any idea who's responsible?" His voice was hollow.

"No," said Reed. "But something is strange. Travis is in no position to speak right now, so after my initial inquiries fell flat, I took the liberty of performing a personnel scan of the _Enterprise_. The computer performed a head count. I ran the scanners twice to make sure there were no mistakes …"

"Get to the point, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir. The thing is … in addition to the crew, I detected three life forms on board."

"Anakin, Obi-Wan and R2-D2. That's right, isn't it?"

"No, sir," said Reed without reproach. "Artoo doesn't have a biological signature."

"What're you sayin', Malcolm?" said Tucker anxiously. "Plain English."

Reed's heavy gaze found Anakin. "I'm saying a fourth party must have boarded _Enterprise_. I'm saying that either these men are hiding something from us, or they were carrying a stowaway without their knowledge."

* * *

T'Pol took another sip of water from her beaker. "Your people are law enforcers?"

"Not exactly," said Obi-Wan Kenobi. He raised a mug of hot black liquid to his mouth, sniffed, and gave it a try. The taste was bitter, not remotely as palatable as jarva juice.

T'Pol had been appointed Obi-Wan's temporary escort until a meeting to decide the fate of the Jedi could be arranged.

The pair now sat together at a table in the otherwise deserted mess hall. Evidently, the ship's other crewmembers were elsewhere performing their usual duties.

"The coffee, you don't like it?" T'Pol inquired, gauging her companion's reaction.

Obi-Wan managed to rearrange his disgusted expression into a passable smile. "It … has its charm," he lied diplomatically.

"I just assumed, you being human, that you'd enjoy the same beverages. Would you like me to replace it?"

"No, thank you," said Obi-Wan, a tad too firmly. "This is perfectly fine. If not to drink, then to keep my hands warm."

"You're cold?" T'Pol asked.

Obi-Wan smiled. "No. Just a bad joke, I'm afraid."

"Oh." T'Pol scratched an itch behind her ear. Obi-Wan thought he saw a trace of color rise in her cheeks.

Although his staunch commitment to the Jedi Order forbade him from becoming intimate with a female, Obi-Wan was not blind or deaf; thus, it hadn't escaped his notice that the Vulcan sub-commander was a remarkably bright and attractive young woman.

"The Jedi are not law-enforcers in a traditional sense," said Obi-Wan, reverting to the previous topic of conversation. "We are protectors, keepers of the peace …"

"That sounds like the same thing," said T'Pol, raising her eyebrows.

"The difference is that we aim to preserve certain moral ideals. We do not answer to corrupt bureaucrats who change their policies with the tide."

"And yet you say your people are fighting a war on behalf of a political regime?"

Obi-Wan sighed, bringing the coffee back to his lips before remembering it tasted like liquidated bantha poo-doo. "Yes. The Clone Wars. However, the Jedi had no choice but to get involved. If the Republic collapses and the Sith seize control –"

"The Sith? Who are they?"

"It's a very long story. Suffice to say, they're not the nicest people you'll ever meet. Were the Sith to gain power, the suffering upon our worlds would be too great to contemplate. The Jedi cannot stand idly by while innocents are slaughtered. We must act. And so must Anakin and I, to the best of our ability. That is why we _must _return to our own galaxy as quickly as possible. Many people are counting on us."

Ten or more seconds passed in silence while T'Pol stared back at him, gazing directly into his clear blue eyes with a faintly dreamy expression on her face that didn't seem to suit her. It made Obi-Wan wonder if he'd spilled coffee on his beard.

Finally, T'Pol blinked and gave her head a small shake. "You seem … you seem like a noble, logical human being," she said in a voice so unaffected that it seemed unnatural. "My people – the Vulcans – find those traits to be extremely desirable."

A crooked half-grin crept onto Obi-Wan's bearded face. This time, there could be no mistaking it. T'Pol was definitely blushing. The pallid skin of her cheeks glowed pale green.

"Maybe I should show you back to your quarters," said T'Pol, flustered. "You must be ready for bed …" She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. "What I mean is, you must be ready to go to your room … by yourself … to do … whatever it is you wish to do until the captain calls for you."

"That's a good idea," said Obi-Wan politely, rising from his chair.

* * *

Obi-Wan's billet was so small, cramped and under-decorated that it could easily have passed for a storage closet. It reminded Obi-Wan vividly of his old padawan chambers at the Temple. All that was missing was the sound of Qui-Gon Jinn's lecherous voice summoning him to dueling practice at some ungodly hour of the morning.

"Thank you, this should be – Oh, I'm sorry!" As he turned he collided with T'Pol, who had been standing closer behind him than he'd realized. So much for being in tune with one's surroundings through the living Force. "I didn't see you."

"No, it was my fault," said T'Pol hurriedly, glancing down as Obi-Wan straightened his tunic. She straightened up again, then said curiously, "What's that hard object under your robes?"

Obi-Wan wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. Then he understood. "Oh, right. That's my lightsaber."

T'Pol's eyebrows formed a V and she seemed to pout at him. "Excuse me?"

She looked right at him, and he at her. They were standing inches apart. Obi-Wan felt an unexpected impulse to move closer still, but he resisted, came to his senses.

"It's a Jedi weapon," he said quietly.

"What does it do?" T'Pol asked.

For the first time Obi-Wan registered how extremely tight and revealing the sub-commander's blue one-piece bodysuit was. It left little of her lissome figure to the imagination.

"It's like a sword made of pure energy," he said. "It can penetrate virtually any substance."

"Fascinating," said T'Pol, the four uninflected syllables somehow laden with subtext. "Would you let me touch it?"

Obi-Wan's response was a long time coming. This was relatively new territory for him. Assuming he hadn't misread the signals. "I'm … not sure that's such a good idea. A Jedi's lightsaber is sacred."

"That's a shame," said T'Pol. She took another step closer, reaching out and running a finger along his brown leather belt. Obi-Wan backed up, but the ceiling tilted on an angle and there was nowhere to go. She leaned forwards, her full lips slightly parted, but stopped centimeters short of initiating the kiss …

"I'm sorry. I'm behaving inappropriately. It's just that, Vulcan women rarely meet members of another race who exhibit such self-control as your kind," she confessed, retreating and turning away. "You speak so logically. Humans in this world are irrational, temperamental, irritating, illogical, needlessly quarrelsome …"

"Somebody talkin' about me behind my back?" Trip Tucker had arrived in the doorway. Leaning against the doorframe with both hands, he grinned at T'Pol, but it was half-hearted, and Obi-Wan knew immediately that something was wrong.

"What?" said T'pol.

"Mister Obi, if you'd follow me please," said Trip, ignoring the question. "The Cap would like a few words. We have a situation."


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

"Give me the situation, Doc."

Wearing a sombre expression, Captain Jonathan Archer stood over Travis Mayweather's prone body, all his earlier excitement regarding Anakin's revelations put on hold.

Doctor Phlox injected an opaque fluid into Travis's shoulder. The Sickbay lights had been dimmed, and the dark reddish shadows pervading the room seemed to deepen the ridges of the Denobulan's face. Travis was fast asleep, sedated.

"I'm pleased to say that Ensign Mayweather's condition is stable," said Phlox. "I located the receptor compounds in his bloodstream before the virus spread to his brainstem or heart. I'm administering the appropriate antibiotics at regular intervals to combat toxic regeneration."

"A virus?" said Archer. "I thought he was attacked?"

He stared down at the unnaturally still Travis, whose body was naked from the waist up. Even in the low light, Archer could see deep lines winding worm-like across his dark skin: swollen veins.

"Indeed," said Phlox. "Whoever attacked him injected him with a weaponized enzyme strain." Phlox walked over to a small steel tray on which lay a broken, hand-held device; it resembled a staple gun. "I gather there was a struggle between Ensign Mayweather and his assailant, because this weapon was recovered at the scene. What remained of the virus escaped into the air and dispersed but, luckily, there was nobody on duty near the Mess Hall at the time."

Until this point, T'Pol had remained silent, guiltily avoiding Obi-Wan Kenobi's gaze. Now she was compelled to speak.

"Master Kenobi and I were in the Mess Hall. I was ... giving him a tour of the deck."

Phlox rocked on the balls of his feet, looking concerned. "I didn't know. It's probably best if I scan you both for infection, though you do appear to be in good health. Has either of you been experiencing any strange symptoms?"

"No, I feel fine," said Obi-Wan.

T'Pol's lengthy silence said it all.

"Sub-commander?" Archer prompted, not wanting to lose another member of his crew.

T'Pol hesitated, looking from face to face, then said, "I've … not exactly been feeling like myself. I've been acting somewhat more impulsively than usual."

"Don't sound so bad," said Trip, who was leaning against a bunk, arms folded across his chest. "We should manufacture more of this stuff and put it in T'Pol's food."

Given Travis's condition, Archer couldn't bring himself to smile, but he didn't reprimand his chief engineer either.

It only took thirty seconds for Phlox to perform a basic chemical analysis scan on T'Pol using a magnetic device wired to the wall-mounted terminal. Readouts which looked like a combination of Chinese, Russian and Gibberish to Jon Archer soon scrolled onto a display screen.

Phlox supplied the translation. "Hm, interesting. There _are_ signs of infection, but they're minor. It appears that the Vulcan anatomy is capable of combating this particular amalgamation of enzymes by converting all hostile agents into a substance called pheratomin, a hormonal-variant that is usually dormant in Vulcans."

"What are the effects?" asked Archer.

Phlox drummed the tips of his fingers together, looking uncomfortable. "Well, in Vulcan _women_, pheratomin tends to act as a stimulant. A … sexual stim –"

"I think that's enough detail," T'Pol interjected sharply.

"As you wish," said Phlox. "The point is, Captain, the effects are already wearing off. There's nothing to worry about."

"Wait, let me get this straight," said Trip, wearing an impish smile and looking at T'Pol, who seemed to have taken an avid interest in the make and design of her own shoes. "T'Pol's feeling fresh for a window of thirty minutes, and I missed it? Damn." Then to Phlox, he said, "So when will she be fully frigid again?"

"Commander," said Archer, a gentle warning in his voice.

"Ten, fifteen minutes by my reckoning," said Phlox.

"_Doctor_," said Archer. "If you two have finished, there's a man here who's been seriously hurt and an attempted murderer is loose on _Enterprise_."

"Sorry, Cap'n," said Tucker meekly.

Archer looked at Lieutenant Reed, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to watch over Obi-Wan and Anakin like a sentinel, blocking the exit to Sickbay.

"Malcolm, you think this intruder arrived aboard the two Jedi starfighters we recovered?"

"It's the most likely scenario, Captain," said Reed, ignoring an unfriendly look from Anakin, who cut in, saying, "That's impossible. Starfighters are one-man craft. There's nowhere for a stowaway to hide."

Obi-Wan paced thoughtfully into the centre of the group. T'Pol had lost interest in her shoes; now the dimmed lighting fixtures overhead seemed to captivate her.

"That's not entirely accurate, Anakin," said Obi-Wan. "It is feasible that the spare parts canisters could provide sufficient space to conceal oneself, if the equipment inside were removed."

"But we launched from a Republic freighter, Master. Knowing we planned to board General Grievous's ship, who would want to sneak aboard? And they couldn't possibly have foreseen that we'd end up in an alternate universe."

Obi-Wan pawed his beard, as was his custom when in deep concentration. Then he had it: "Sasha-Kinn."

"Sasha-Kinn? The padawan learner assigned to Jedi Master Voslo?" Anakin obviously wasn't sold on the idea.

"Why not?" said Obi-Wan reasonably. "Sasha-Kinn is obsessed with you. She followed you everywhere while we were on board the freighter. You're her idol, Anakin."

"'Idol' is a little strong, Master."

"Oh, is it? When she came to my quarters in quest of you, she told me that she likes to write poetry in her free time. I was charmed until I learned that twenty-two of these poems are about your heroic exploits, four are about the colour of your eyes, and one is about the blundering of Jedi Master Oldy Kanoti, who hides valuable knowledge from his brilliant and handsome padawan in his cannok's-nest of a beard."

Anakin laughed.

"Need I add that Miss Kinn's Holonet user name is Lady Nikana, which spells Anakin backwards?"

"No, Master. You've made your point. But I still find it hard to believe that Sasha would take such a risk. Master Voslo is one of the Temple's strictest masters; if he found out, he'd expel her from the Order."

"Sometimes devotion to one's idols – to those who inspire us – subverts common sense, my young friend," said Obi-Wan. "The Jedi are taught to suppress their feelings, to be objective, but we are not immune to natural impulse." His eyes shifted briefly to T'Pol, then away again. "Even I can attest to that."

Archer wasn't fond of being left out of the loop. "If your hypothesis is correct, Master Kenobi, can you please explain why a Jedi Knight – a people who I understand to be peaceful – would attempt to kill a member of my crew?"

"If it _is_ Sasha-Kinn, she was most likely trying to stage a rescue." When Archer didn't respond, Obi-Wan went into further detail. "When Anakin and I departed the Republic freighter, our intention was to board a Separatist war ship called the _Invisible Hand_, under the command of the Separatist movement's most feared general and tactician – a half-reptilian, half-cyborg sadist named Grievous. If Sasha-Kinn was indeed hidden in the spare parts silo of one of our starfighters, then she had no possible way of knowing that our attempt to dock with Grievous's vessel was unsuccessful. She may believe that the _Enterprise is_ the _Invisible Hand_, and that Anakin and I are in need of aid, possibly being held hostage."

Archer walked over to Travis. He rested his hand on his crewman's head. The ensign's temperature was up, but his vital signs were reassuring. It was hard to believe that the infiltrator stalking the corridors of his ship was actually some misunderstood heroine-in-training.

He turned to Obi-Wan. "Well, there's one way to find out for sure."


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The group had relocated to the bridge, where Captain Archer had come up with the idea of using the intercom to address the entire ship: every room, every corridor, every nook and cranny. If the person who had attacked Travis was a Jedi padawan operating under false pretences, there would be no reason for her to remain in hiding once she learned that her friends were safe and sound.

"Sasha-Kinn, if you can hear me, my name is Jonathan Archer. I am in command of this starship. My crew and I are in _no way _affiliated with the Separatists, Count Dooku, or General Grievous." He prompted Obi-Wan with a firm nod.

"Sasha-Kinn, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi," said the Jedi, replacing the captain in front of the console. "Anakin and I are fine. These people are not our enemies; they mean you no harm. I implore you to turn yourself in to the next –"

"_Prove it!" _demanded a tinny female voice over the comm channel.

Everyone looked surprised to have received such a quick response; everyone except Obi-Wan, who was smiling smugly at Anakin, his theory having proved correct.

Glancing up from her workstation, T'Pol spoke quietly to Captain Archer. "She's using a comm station on D deck. I advise that we deploy a team to intercept, phasers set to stun."

Archer held up his hand. "No, wait. Let's see how this plays out."

Obi-Wan continued: "Sasha-Kinn, this has all been a misunderstanding. Captain Archer and his –"

"_No, I want to hear his voice! I need to know he's safe!" _the girl snapped, her high-pitched voice terse with determination and fear.

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows. "Well, I know when I'm not wanted," he said to Anakin, who, with a smug smile of his own, stepped up to the command console.

"I'm here, Sasha," said the tall, dark-robed Jedi kindly.

"_Anakin!_" gasped Sasha-Kinn, sounding suddenly breathless with delight. "_Thank the Force! I thought Master Kenobi had led you into a trap_ –"

"I am still listening, you know," Obi-Wan remarked grumpily, but Sasha-Kinn didn't seem to hear.

"_I thought Grievous had locked you both up, or worse; so I thought to myself, What would Anakin do is this situation?" _She spoke in a rush, barely pausing for breath such was her excitement. "_You're so brave, and I knew you would have come to rescue me, no matter the danger, so I stayed strong and I decided to do the same; I searched all over the ship (well, one floor of the ship) but even though I thought it was super strange that there were no droids, I had to assume that Grievous was trying to trick me the same way he'd tricked Master Kenobi, so I …"_

Ensign Hoshi Sato clicked a switch and the transmission went dead. "Oops, my finger slipped," she said, smiling.

* * *

Once the intruder had been located, everyone converged in a spare conference room.

Sasha-Kinn, as it turned out, was a Twi'lek. Petit and slender with a soft-featured cherubic face, her skin was pastel pink, her Jedi robes oil-stained, and her large sky-blue eyes seemed to sparkle with reverence whenever they came to rest on Anakin.

At present, however, she was fiddling with the tip of her head-tail, her gaze downcast, her tone contrite.

"I'm really sorry about what I did to your friend," she said to Captain Archer. "He surprised me and I guess I just ... reacted, y'know? The virus gun came from a clinic on the Republic freighter."

She glanced sheepishly at Anakin and Obi-Wan, who had seated themselves on either side of her like disappointed parents. "It's a good job I didn't have my lightsaber, really ..." (Obi-Wan's face slackened in disbelief at this unforgivable breach of Jedi protocol.) "There was no time to collect it when I hid in Anakin's starfighter. I just really, really wanted to help you guys bring down Grievous."

Archer, T'Pol and Reed sat together on the opposite side of the conference table, their backs to a wide starlit window. Oddly, Tucker had chosen to rest his backside on the rim of a plant-pot in the far corner rather than join the rest, claiming the chairs were murder on his back. This feeble explanation failed to fool Archer, who had noticed R2-D2 rolling around the meeting room. The plant-pot was the farthest away Trip could get from the small droid without standing on the table and lifting his skirt. At one point Malcolm craned his neck around T'Pol and gave his friend a confused look. Trip simply smiled and waved, as though sitting in plant-pot fertilizer was perfectly natural, even when there were nine available seats.

With the mystery surrounding Travis Mayweather's unfortunate assault resolved, talk turned to another serious issue.

"We do not wish to be an imposition," said Obi-Wan, "but it's imperative that Anakin and I return to our own dimension, and we would greatly appreciate any assistance you can provide."

T'Pol was able to look Obi-Wan straight in the face for the first time since she'd tried to manhandle his lightsaber. "The logical first step," she said, "would be to re-locate the temporal vortex through which you entered originally. Perhaps the gateway is still open."

"And if it isn't?" Malcolm speculated.

"Then we find another way to help them; I have contacts on Vulcan who dabble in string theory and temporal astrophysics. They may be able to offer guidance."

Surprised by T'Pol's readiness to recruit fellow Vulcans to assist a human, Archer eyed his sub-commander, but she either didn't notice, or chose not to.

"Sounds like a plan to me," he said cheerfully, slapping his palms against the surface of the table. Archer was keen to resume drilling his guests with questions about the Force, and to convince one of them to give him a crash course in how to levitate random objects – perhaps he could practice on Porthos?

* * *

The meeting over, Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker the Third set off for Engineering. The Lieutenant had some free time to kill while his new weapons upgrades ran a self-diagnostic.

"I don't get it," he said, frowning at Tucker as they ducked under a low ventilation shaft. "Why are you so afraid of that little robot?"

"I ain't afraid," said Trip defensively.

"Oh, come off it. You practically break into a cold sweat every time it makes a beep."

"If I'm sweating, it's because of the ventilation issues we've been having down here in Working Class." Malcolm smiled at the insinuation that he had it easy in First Class on the bridge with the captain. "The little monster's beeping has nothing to do with it," Trip assured him.

"Artoo seems harmless to me," said Malcolm.

"Yeah, apart from the electro-shock arm and flame-throwing rocket boosters, y'mean …"

"Are you serious? That's impressive. I'll have to take a gander myself."

Trip set his foot on the first rung of the ladder that ascended to the warp engine platform, said, "Be my guest, Flash Gordon," and started to climb. "Just don't come crying to me when you get your eyebrows singed off."

* * *

Travis Mayweather awoke to a wave of nausea. After closing his eyes for a few seconds, he sat up slowly, wondering where he was.

Then he saw the young, pink-skinned alien woman standing in the doorway and it all came back to him in a terrifying flash of clarity.

"Stay away from me," he said hoarsely.

She stepped into the dark room and closed the hydraulic doors behind her. "I'm afraid I can't do that," she said regretfully. "You know too much."

Travis darted for the exit, but the anesthetic was still in his system; his legs failed to take his bodyweight and he staggered, clinging onto a medical cart for support. Metal appliances clattered to the ground, driving nails of pain through Travis's tender eardrums. Then he noticed Doctor Phlox lying on the floor, too; he wasn't moving, his eyes closed, his legs and arms spread like a broken starfish upon a reef.

"What did you do to him?" said Travis, gritting his teeth and struggling to stand upright.

The woman removed a small, black cylindrical object from her belt. She touched a switch with her thumb and a blood-red crimson blade buzzed from one end of the weapon. To Travis, it looked like a sword made of pure red plasma, and it made his stomach churn with fear.

"I wouldn't worry about him," said Sasha-Kinn, grinning darkly. "You're in over your head as it as."


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Jonathan Archer was concentrating so hard that his face was starting to discolour, the deep frown lines upon his forehead etched in marble.

Obi-Wan felt tired just watching him. "Maybe you should take a break, Captain. The Force cannot be mastered in one evening. You're expecting too much of yourself."

"No," Archer practically growled, causing his pet dog, Porthos, to whine and take cover behind R2-D2. "I can do it." He extended his hand, palm up, willing himself to succeed, until finally …

"There, see! It wobbled! Did it wobble? I thought it wobbled."

Obi-Wan looked at the datapad lying on Archer's desk. It was in exactly the same position it had been for the past two hours. It was probably the captain's vision that had wobbled as gallons of blood pumped into his overworked brain. The man's determination was admirable, but at this rate he was going to give himself a stroke before he made a paperclip twitch.

Obi-Wan sighed, rose from his seat by the wall, and approached Archer.

"Relax," he said soothingly. "The Force cannot be _made _to obey your commands through effort alone. You must stretch out with your feelings, become one with your surroundings. You're trying to win the pod race derby before you've located the accelerator."

Incredibly, Archer's frown intensified.

"Never mind," said Obi-Wan, resting his hand on Archer's shoulder. "Now – try again. But this time, I want you to close your eyes."

Archer let his arm flop to his side. "Close my eyes? But if I can't see the thing …"

"What you can or cannot see is irrelevant," said Obi-Wan with an empathetic smile. "Once you can sense the Force flowing through you, around you, like a warm wind caressing your skin, your environment will reveal itself in far greater detail than your other five senses could combined."

Clearly encouraged, Archer nodded, filled his lungs, then forced the air out through his nose, as if trying to expel all his pent-up frustration in one go. Allowing the muscles of his face and limbs to relax, he closed his eyes as instructed.

Obi-Wan positioned himself to one side, watching intently, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his billowing brown robe. Teaching non-Jedi the ways of the Force was forbidden in his galaxy – but this wasn't his galaxy, and the Jedi master felt he owed Jonathan Archer a debt of gratitude.

The captain would have been fully within his rights to simply turn Obi-Wan and Anakin away, to hand them over to his superiors on Earth. But he had not; he had extended the hand of friendship, offered to help them despite the risks, despite the inconvenience to his own mission. Through the Force, Obi-Wan had sensed right away that Jonathan Archer was a valiant, trustworthy and charitable human being. Had he been born on Coruscant or any other Core world, he would surely have been selected for Jedi training at a young age.

After several minutes of absolute silence, Archer raised his right hand again, breathing deeply and steadily, his chest rising and falling, his eyes motionless beneath the lids.

Obi-Wan waited with baited breath.

On the desk, the datapad remained as immobile as a woolly bantha preserved in a slab of ice.

Again Obi-Wan was set to offer his reassurances when, quite remarkably, the captain's entire desk gave a great shudder, rattling on it hinges. The datapad fell to the floor with a clatter.

Porthos barked, wagging his tail frantically. Even R2-D2 managed to appear shocked, which, given his extremely limited range of facial expressions, was quite a feat in itself.

Archer's eyes snapped open. "Did it work?" he gasped.

Stunned and impressed, Obi-Wan said, "I believe so."

"You were right," said Archer, whose child-like excitement was infectious. "When I stopped trying to force it, things just fell into place! There _was _something – a feeling, a pressure, like being under water – and when I reached out to it, it was like the current responded, turned into a wave when I touched it …"

"Well done," said Obi-Wan. "If you should ever tire of captaining a starship in this domain, perhaps you'll consider coming to ours. I'll put a good word in for you with Master Windu at the Temple."

Archer smiled, wiping a film of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. "Thanks ... but no thanks. I can't see myself ever getting tired of life aboard _Enterprise_. The crew would be lost without me. Malcolm would start an interplanetary war testing out his weapons on random alien ships, and by time Trip and T'Pol finished arguing about how to resolve the situation, the war would be over."

Obi-Wan could tell that the captain did not mean a word he had said. Jonathan Archer obviously had great faith in the abilities of his colleagues. It was precisely how Obi-Wan felt about Anakin, though he sometimes had trouble expressing it.

"You have a good crew, Captain," said Obi-Wan, one leader of men to another.

"I know," said Archer softly. "I know."

* * *

Travis Mayweather refused to go down without a fight.

But the crazy alien woman didn't seem conerned: she walked casually toward him, her glowing red weapon hanging loosely by her side, a look of sadistic expectation lending a vampiric quality to her delicate pink features.

But she had fallen for Travis's ruse.

His balance was fine and his mind was clear. A special blend of Doctor Phlox's own concoction, the anesthetic in Travis's bloodstream had worn off the moment he had regained consciousness. Knowing he'd need an edge, that he'd lose in a fair fight, Travis had pretended to be defenseless, making a display of stumbling headlong into the medical cart by his bed.

Discretely, from the lowest shelf, he palmed a container of nasty-smelling yellow liquid, which he knew to be chloric acid for treating infected wounds.

His would-be killer raised her energy weapon in both hands.

"Nighty night, Mister Mayweather."

"I don't think so," Travis growled, flinging the acid into her smug face. "I've just had a nap."

The alien woman screamed, blinking the caustic liquid out of her eyes. As a result her sword strike came late. Travis dived out of the way of the scything blade, which bisected the metal cart into two clean halves, and, scrambling to his feet, he bolted for the exit.

* * *

Satisfied with his progress, Jonathan Archer was all set to take a well-earned break from Force practice when Ensign Mayweather burst into his quarters, shirtless and frantic.

"Sir, thank God!"

"Travis, what's wrong? Does Doctor Phlox know you're out of bed?"

"Phlox is in trouble, sir. He's alone with that … that woman … I only just managed to get away myself."

"Slow down," said Archer. "What're you talking about? What woman?"

"The one who attacked me earlier, sir."

"Sasha-Kinn?" said Obi-Wan.

"I don't know," said Travis, who flinched when he noticed the Jedi's strange attire. "But I ... overheard her communicating with someone. I couldn't catch a name, but she was giving whoever it was our location. They're going to attack _Enterprise_."

"Travis, are you _sure _that's what she said?" asked Archer.

"Absolutely, sir," said Travis. "That's why she tried to kill me: to keep me quiet. I lost her in the corridors near sickbay by taking a maintenance hatch, but she could be here at any moment … She's not like a normal person; she's quick, strong, I can't explain it …"

Archer removed his phase pistol, switched it to its highest setting and headed for the door with long, resolute strides. Before he reached it, Obi-Wan touched him on the shoulder, and Archer paused, looked back.

"No," said the Jedi. "This is our mess. Anakin and I will clean it up. You stay here."

"I'm responsible for the safety of every man and woman on this ship," said Archer. "And I know the layout far better than you or anyone else. You're welcome to come with me, but I won't stand around and do nothing."

His words had the desired effect.

"Very well," said Obi-Wan. "Lead on."

* * *

Meanwhile, only a few dozen light-years away, the hulking predator that was the _Invisible Hand _had received its co-ordinates and was streaking its way through the vast expanse of space on a direct intercept course.

Aboard the bustling bridge, surrounded by pencil-necked solider droids, a towering figure glared dead ahead through the forward viewport, his slitted yellow eyes narrowed with malice.

"Sir," droned a skinny droid with a red command stripe on his shoulder, "we'll be in visual range of the enemy ship in twenty minutes."

"Good," said General Grievous in an artificially synthesized rasp. "Has there been any word from our spy?"

"No, sir. She was supposed to report in several minutes ago."

"Then we must assume that she has been captured …" He broke off, coughing violently, then added, "The element of surprise may have been lost. Make sure that our artillery batteries and sonic cannons are prepared the moment we come out of light speed."

"Rodger-rodger," said the droid, marching off.

Grievous caressed one of the lightsabers beneath his long green cloak. He would soon be adding two more to his collection – and may the Force help anybody foolish enough to stand in his way.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Clutching a phase pistol in one hand, Lieutenant Reed knelt swiftly beside Doctor Phlox's motionless body and pressed two fingers to his neck. The pulse was faint, but it was there.

"Phlox is okay," said Malcolm into his communicator. "He seems to have taken a fair knock to the head; he's just unconscious.'

"_Glad to hear it_," Archer replied over the fixed comm channel. "_Any sign of the culprit_?"

"No, sir. I'd better stay with Phlox just in case she returns."

"_Good idea. Report back if you find anything. Archer out_."

* * *

The captain changed frequencies. "Trip, any luck?"

"_Not yet, Cap'n. I've got every available hand down here searching for this bad-ass alien babe. Nothin' so far_."

"Keep on it."

"_Aye, sir_."

Archer pocketed his communicator and scowled. Sasha-Kinn seemed to have vanished. After a meticulous search of the corridors and maintenance gantries around sickbay, Archer and his entourage – which now included several armed _Enterprise_ personnel – had soon run out of leads.

"We should search the area around Anakin's quarters," said Master Kenobi, who must have seen, or _sensed, _the captain's indecision.

Archer didn't pause to reply. He continued moving from door to door, peering into each new room for any sign of the fugitive. "You think Sasha-Kinn plans to hurt Anakin?" he asked.

"No," said Obi-Wan, matching Archer's longer stride with apparent ease. "But she may try to recruit him."

A vivid recollection of Anakin Skywalker's dark eyes reflected in cold glass assailed the captain with doubt. The young Jedi was not a foe he cared to face.

Archer stopped in his tracks, used his greater bulk to barricade Obi-Wan's path, and glared at the smaller man. "_Could_ she recruit him?" he demanded.

"No. Anakin is a Jedi Knight."

"So is Sasha-Kinn," Archer countered.

"The difference being that I have known Anakin his entire life. Whereas I met Miss Kinn for the first time aboard our Republic freighter and know next to nothing about her."

"Shouldn't a master know all his students?"_  
_

"With respect, Captain, you fail to grasp the size of the Temple and the scope of its dealings. Add to this that we've been fighting a war for the past two years, and monitoring the mental well-being of every new padawan becomes almost impossible."

Archer averted his gaze, ashamed by his outburst. "Master Kenobi, I'm ..."

"... rightfully suspicious of strangers. The least threatening of whom has tried to kill your navigator twice.

"Captain ... Sasha-Kinn may have betrayed the Jedi, but her affection for Anakin _is_ genuine. It stands to reason that she'd seek him out if she's feeling threatened."

Grateful for the tactful way in which Obi-Wan had dismissed his apology, Archer stood tall and addressed his team in a louder, yet calmer, voice:

"All right. Everyone try to stay close and follow me. I know a shortcut."

* * *

Using a door hidden behind a storage locker and a ladder that only the captain – and possibly Commander Tucker – knew existed, it took the armed group less than a minute to reach their destination.

The corridor outside Anakin's billet was narrow and dark. Unusually dark.

Earlier, Lieutenant Reed had explained that his weapons diagnostic program could boost its processing power by siphoning electricity from non-essential systems throughout _Enterprise_. Archer had been impressed, but now he saw that he and the lieutenant had very different ideas about what constituted a "non-essential" system.

"Lights" were most certainly not on Archer's list.

"Corporal Vasquez," said Archer, to the only member of his squad he knew to have technical training, "go back down the hall and see if you can get some juice out of the emergency generators."

"Sir," said the Spaniard, and he departed at a run.

"Be ready. If Master Kenobi is correct—"

"What was that?" said a female private.

Archer had heard it too: a quiet creaking from the far end of the hall.

"It's too dark ... I can't see a thing," said Travis, who had tagged along since joining the captain in his quarters.

They stared into darkness, waiting for their eyes to adapt, when the sound came again.

The squad raised their phasers, and in the same instant the runway lights underfoot came on, producing a weak, inconstant light that cast the petit and superficially harmless form of Sasha-Kinn into sinister relief.

The tenacious Twi'lek bolted the moment she caught sight of Archer's strike team, but Corporal Vasquez, his work complete, appeared at the end of the hall to block her path.

"Don't move!" he shouted, drawing a bead with his phase pistol.

When the alien didn't comply, he fired.

So fast were the false Jedi's reactions that she blocked the attack with her lightsaber before Archer had seen her draw the weapon.

Some of the other crewmen rushed to help the corporal, but Sasha-Kinn's scarlet saber, her whole body, became a blur. As if she had perfect three-sixty degree vision, she was able deflect or avoid every energy beam directed her way. She cartwheeled between two of her attackers and assailed them with artfully savage strokes, creating and cauterizing their wounds with singular sweeps of her blinding-hot blade. Accompanied by the hiss of broiled flesh, her victims screamed and fell, the gashes across their legs and arms rendering them helpless.

Vasquez and two others couldn't even aim fast enough to retaliate before Sasha-Kinn pushed her hand through the air, using the Force to ram their bodies against a metal bulkhead, and then watched them fall, unconscious or crippled, to the metal-grated causeway.

Obi-Wan Kenobi emerged from the remainder of the group surrounding the captain and stood alone in the midst of the devastation.

"Sasha-Kinn, stop this!" he said in a commanding voice, which reminded Archer that the Jedi was a general as well as a sage.

Sasha spun, raising her saber in a defensive double-handed grip. Obi-Wan hadn't gone near his lightsaber and yet the Twi'lek's callous confidence had transformed into terror.

"Why are you doing this?" Obi-Wan asked the fugitive.

"Why do you think?" said Sasha-Kinn, sounding scornful, despite her trembling hands. "The Jedi are so blind!"

"You're not making sense, Sasha."

"Don't call me that! Only he calls me Sasha."

She tensed as if to attack; however, with a nonchalance that Archer couldn't help but find impressive, Obi-Wan drew aside the hem of his cloak and used the Force to summon the hilt of his lightsaber into his hand.

"Do not try my patience, Miss Kinn. You lost my sympathy the moment you sought to harm these men."

Sasha looked relieved to be given the chance to rethink her strategy. "I ... I'm the the only one who _is _making sense. The Sith have already won the war. The fools on the council are just t-too near-sighted to realize it.

"Lord Tyrannus explained everything to me. It's only a matter of time before your corrupt Republic falls …"

Obi-Wan gave a sad smile. "Who are you trying to convince? Me – or yourself?"

"It's _true!_" Sasha screamed. "It's ... it's our ... our destiny to rule ... m-my master said so ..."

Captain Archer had heard enough of this quasi-religious nonsense.

"Who's coming after us?" he demanded. "Who did you contact? Answer me!"

With a scornful snicker, she said, "Your pathetic excuse for a starship is no match for his."

Obi-Wan must have intuited a truth that was hidden to Archer, for the Jedi uttered a single word:

"_Grievous_."

Sasha-Kinn nodded. "Soon, everything you see here will be dust ... a bitter memory!"

"Including you," said Archer.

The statement unnerved Sasha visibly. In the combined radiance of the corridor runway lights and her raised red saber, a droplet of sweat formed upon her forehead and then sluiced down one of her long, curved headtails.

Sensing he'd struck a cord, Archer said, "I don't think you want to die."

Just then the door of Anakin's billet hissed open and the tall shaggy-haired Jedi stepped into the corridor behind Sasha-Kinn.

"Good of you to join us," said Obi-Wan.

"I was meditating," said Anakin. "What did I miss?" He looked around at the injured crewmen nursing their wounds.

Sasha-Kinn's demeanour thawed instantly: she squealed with something approximating joy, desperation and relief.

"You've got to help me, Anakin! We don't have much time … Grievous is coming!"

"Grievous?" Anakin frowned down at Sasha-Kinn as she reached out to him, grasping his black cloak between her fingers like a hungry vagrant begging for aid.

"Master Skywalker," said Archer, using "master" as a polite honorific rather than an official title. "What Sasha-Kinn neglected to mention is that she's a Separatist agent. She's been double-crossing you since the beginning."

"No!" said Sasha indignantly, pulling closer to Anakin while rounding on Archer. "That's not true! I'd never do anything to hurt Anakin. It's Master Kenobi Grievous wants."

"If you believe that, then you are deluded," said Obi-Wan.

Anakin was staring at Sasha-Kinn, at her red lightsaber, with an expression that suggested he'd exchanged his meditations for a topsy-turvy dream.

The silence seemed to last forever.

Glancing past Anakin, Archer was quietly relieved to note that further crewmen had arrived and were stealthily helping Sasha-Kinn's victims to safety.

"Is it true?" Anakin asked of his admirer.

"It's … yes, but it's not what you th-think," she stammered. She plucked at his sleeve. "C'mon ... We have to get out of here! We can discuss it later." Somehow, in her demented mind, she saw herself as Anakin's accomplice, his best friend, and perhaps more than that. "We can escape in one of the shuttles. You can fly them, right? You can fly anything!"

She held his hand and tried to pull him along, but Anakin's grip tensed and he yanked her back to her starting place.

Gasping as if there were too little oxygen in the room, Sasha-Kinn looked up into the face of her hero, her watery blue eyes wide with confusion. She suddenly seemed like a lost little girl, abandoned by the only person she cared about, unable to come to terms with the rejection.

"Anakin?" she breathed, the word fraught with emotion.

"I'm sorry, Sasha."

His reply acted like a crushing hammer-blow to her heart. She sniffed, her words coming in a mighty, breathless, desperate rush: "The Jedi don't care about you, Anakin! They just wanna hold you back, turn us all into mindless machines! We're better than that! You've realized it, too. I can sense your conflict …"

"The Order isn't perfect," Anakin admitted, "But you've gone too far. These people don't deserve to die. And I won't let them."

Sasha-Kinn sounded suddenly defeated. "No. No, no, no … this is all wrong. I never meant to hurt you, Anakin. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I don't want to fight you …" Her words trailed off into a sorrowful silence.

Archer risked edging toward the girl, speaking more compassionately than he had before. "You don't have to fight anyone. Put the weapon down. Redeem yourself by helping us beat Grievous."

Sasha-Kinn wiped a rogue tear from her cheek, responding to Archer's question even while she continued to search Anakin's face for understanding.

"Even the Republic's finest fleet of battle cruisers couldn't defeat Grievous," she croaked. "This tiny ship doesn't have a prayer." Then, with a great shudder that seemed to sap her of all vitality, she said to Anakin, "I'm sorry. For everything. I ... I wanted ... I wanted you to be proud of me."

And without warning, lightsaber raised, she attacked him head-on.

* * *

To Jonathan Archer, this no doubt seemed like a final insane act of aggression, but Obi-Wan knew the truth. Anakin's rejection had so irrevocably crippled her fragile psyche that she was effectively committing suicide. She knew as well as anyone that defeating the Chosen One in single combat was a near-impossible task.

Anakin's neon-blue saber was in his hand in a microsecond. He easily parried and evaded every one of Sasha's strikes with sublime skill, reluctant to deliver a killing blow, but the distraught youth was leaving him little choice. She would not quit, would not hold back, swinging her thrumming blade with reckless ferocity and calling on her rage and sorrow to augment her powers as she sobbed openly.

It was either him or her.

Acting on instinct, Anakin deflected ten quick-fire strikes, hurdled another, ducked beneath a broader, horizontal slash, spun on his heel and, finally, directed the point of his blade into his assailant's exposed abdomen.

Sasha-Kinn pressed her eyelids together for the last time. Her saber deactivated itself and skittered away down the corridor as she collapsed to the ground – dead.

In the aftermath of the brief battle, Anakin stared in silence at the now peaceful face of his one-time admirer. Obi-Wan patted him on the elbow and, in a conciliatory tone, said, "There was nothing else you could have done, Anakin. She left you no choice."

* * *

Out of respect for any regret the two Jedi might be feeling, Archer remained silent for a few moments; then he turned to Travis Mayweather, who had seen the whole shocking drama unfold without comment.

"I hope you're feeling better," Archer said quietly to his helm officer, "because from what I've heard, we're about to need one hell of a pilot."

Travis produced a weak grin. "If you can't find one, I'm willing to give it a shot, sir. Just … let me put a shirt on. I'm starting to feel like I've been demoted to the ship's stripper."

* * *

"Travis!" cried Hoshi Sato as Ensign Mayweather, Captain Archer, Obi-Wan, Anakin and R2-D2 arrived on the bridge.

Lieutenant Reed had taken his position at the tactical array while Trip had been sent directly to Engineering. Archer had to make sure the engines were well lubricated before their upcoming encounter.

Travis, sporting an old white T-shirt bearing the Starfleet insignia, slid easily into his seat at the navigation controls.

"Good to have you back," said Hoshi.

"Good to be back," said Travis, smiling.

Sub-commander T'Pol had no such time for pleasantries. "Captain, our sensors are detecting an incoming vessel. It's big. Over one thousand meters in length –"

"_One thousand_ meters?" said Archer incredulously, moving to his command chair. The _Enterprise_'s length barely exceeded one hundred meters.

"Its overall mass is more than sixty times that of _Enterprise_ and its weapons systems are far more advanced than our own."

"On screen," said Archer.

The _Invisible Hand_ was colossal. There was no other word for it. It looked like an enormous futuristic submarine, or a horizontal skyscraper, and was significantly better equipped for warfare than either.

"We don't stand a chance," said Malcolm, watching the great metallic hulk as it drifted toward their comparatively tiny vessel. "We should try to outrun them."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," said T'Pol. "The vessel appears to be capable of travelling at a speed in excess of Warp 9."

The crew traded nervous glances.

All except Captain Archer, whose jaw was clenched, his gaze forward as he assessed the structure of the enemy ship for possible weaknesses he might be able to exploit.

"Lieutenant, when will these new weapons upgrades of yours be online?"

"Any time now, sir," said Reed. "The scan is almost complete. But … I said they'd make this the most imposing _human_ vessel in uncharted space. This extra-dimensional hulk is in a whole new league."

"Every dog has its day," said Archer.

"While I admire your very human optimism in the face of overwhelming odds, Captain," said T'Pol, "it would be wise to avoid a confrontation. They may be willing to negotiate."

As if on cue, Hoshi said, "We're being hailed. But … there's a problem. Our visual systems are incompatible with theirs."

R2-D2 inserted his computer-interface arm into one of the electrical output sockets behind Hoshi. Rerouting the incoming transmission through his own systems, the little droid projected a life-sized holo-image of General Grievous onto the deck of the bridge.

Hoshi gasped.

"Bloody hell," muttered Malcolm.

Archer showed no overt signs of fear, but he could not deny that the eight-foot-tall cyborg struck an imposing visage.

"To whom am I speaking?" Grievous rasped.

Archer regained his composure quickly. "This is Captain Jonathan Archer of the starship _Enterprise_. To whom am _I_ speaking? I believe I have a right to know seeing as how you're the one blocking _my_ path."

"This is General Grievous of the Confederacy of Independent Systems." His rough voice had a protracted, snake-like quality, and simmered with hatred. "I have been informed that you are harbouring two fugitives."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Archer, pacing, hands clasped at the small of his back.

"I think you know precisely what I am talking about, Captain. Give the Jedi to me and I may consider sparing your ship."

Obi-Wan spoke, enunciating clearly and calmly. "We accept your terms. Just leave these people alone, Grievous. This is between us."

"Ah, General Kenobi, I believe." The cyborg's voice filled with perverse delight. "As you wish. Disembark from the vessel immediately in your inoperative starfighters and I will use my tractor beam to bring you aboard my ship."

"Very well. We're on our way ..."

"No," said Archer, fixing Grievous with a defiant glare. "That is not going to happen. We refuse to surrender our passengers into your custody."

Grievous laughed, which soon turned into another ferocious coughing fit. "Your ship carries no weapons that can penetrate our shields. Are you insane?"

Archer stopped pacing, legs spread, chin raised. "We're about to find out."

"Sir," said Malcolm, "regrettable as it may be, turning the Jedi over is our only option. They can certainly take care of themselves, and we have more than our own lives to consider. What about the rest of crew?"

"I agree with the lieutenant," said Anakin, which seemed to surprise Malcolm. "Obi-Wan and I will be fine."

"Yes," said Master Kenobi, "don't throw your lives away on our behalf."

"I don't intend to," said Archer. "But what kind of Starfleet captain would I be if I shove my friends out of the airlock at the first sign of trouble?"

He returned his attention to Grievous and stared intrepidly at the cyborg's holographic death mask. "General, you have my decision. Do your worst. But don't expect me to lie down and take it."

Grievous's slitted eyes seemed to dilate, as though he had never witnessed such reckless audacity. "You are a fool, Captain. Prepare to be annihilated."

* * *

**(Author's note: I hope you're enjoying the story! However, from this point forward, you may notice a slight decline in the quality of my writing, as I haven't yet gotten around to revising the next chapters, which were originally posted in 2007.)**


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

A master of warcraft, General Grievous could think of no greater thrill than to soundly outmaneuver and crush a worthy adversary.

But he would reap scant joy from this massacre. There was no glory in crushing insects.

With a final contemptuous glance at the doomed Earth ship, he said, "Focus all forward laser cannons and sonic disruptors on their main hull. Fire when ready."

"Yes, sir," replied the nasal voice of a droid gunner, his skeletal fingers already activating various switches.

The general's only regret was that he would not have the pleasure of watching the two troublesome Jedi breathe their last.

* * *

Visibly shaken, Malcolm Reed's head snapped up from his tactical display. "They're charging their weapons. I've polarized the hull plating but it'll do us no good. By my reckoning, we have less than twenty seconds left to live. But after that inspiring little speech of yours, I'm assuming you have a plan, Captain?" 

"I do … _actually_," Jonathan Archer replied with conviction, sparing Reed a glance. Then he added, "Almost. I'm still working on it."

T'Pol and Obi-Wan exchanged uneasy looks.

"Fifteen seconds," said Reed, going paler still.

As the seconds until Judgement Day ticked away, Archer sat in his command chair, clenching his hands so tightly on the armrests that his knuckles went white. It was now or never. He had gotten them into this fix and it was his responsibility to save their skins. He just wished he had a few more minutes to figure out how.

"Mister Mayweather," he said tensely, after two prolonged seconds of intense brainstorming. "Straight ahead. Full impulse."

"Sir?" said Travis, startled. "We'll crash right into them …"

"Ten seconds," said Reed grimly from behind them. "Nine, eight, seven …"

"Do it, Travis!"

"Aye, sir."

"Hold on to something," said Archer. "This could get bumpy."

Impulse engines aglow with brilliant blue light that outshone the surrounding nebulae, the _Enterprise _shot forward on a direct collision course with the immovable mass of steel blocking its path. One vessel would survive the devastating crash and the other would perish, but either way there would be one hell of a fireworks display.

* * *

For an instant, as he gazed through the forward viewport, General Grievous thought the artificial synapse relays in his brain were backfiring. The enemy ship seemed to be surging straight toward them! The general's earlier question had been answered categorically: Jonathan Archer _was_ mentally unbalanced. The kamikaze attack would obliterate the bridge of the _Invisible Hand_, as well as Grievous himself. Even their shields would be inadequate to protect them. 

"Evasive maneuvers!" yelled Grievous, ramming his clawed fist against the wall.

"No time, General!" reported a droid pilot. "Brace for impact!"

For the first time in standard years, Grievous's life flashed before his eyes. This was no way for an eminent warlord to meet his doom! _Cowards! _he cursed silently. _Cowards!_

* * *

As _Enterprise _barreled headlong toward its impending destruction, Captain Archer leaned so far back in his seat that he was in danger of becoming fused to the leather backrest, his heart racing like a jackrabbit's. 

On screen, the bridge of the enemy ship was now so close that he could almost see the yellows of Grievous's eyes as the cyborg recoiled in panic.

Archer had to admit, this plan was no work of genius, but it was a little too late to go back to the drawing board.

"Now, Travis!" Archer roared, seconds before contact, the impulse engines rumbling in his ears. "Take us up!"

Like a runaway roller-coaster carriage, the _Enterprise _climbed into an ascent so steep that it verged on vertical. The intense G-force of such a rapid rise forced everybody on board to hold fast to any appliance that was bolted down in order to remain standing. Lights flickered, warning alarms blared. Archer teetered on the brink of a blackout but managed to cling to his faculties.

Anakin and Obi-Wan called on the Force to stabilize everyone's footing best as they could, but they were not miracle workers. Injuries would be unavoidable.

Then it happened. As the ship reached the summit of its spine-tingling climb, a sudden, terrifying, thunderous screech of steel on steel struck the fear of death into every soul on board.

Unseen by the crew, white-hot sparks flared as the underside of _Enterprise's _hull scraped along the roof of the _Invisible Hand'_s topmost command tower. They needed a fraction more altitude! Just a _fraction, _an inch, a hair's breadth, or all was lost!

On the bridge, the collision generated a seismic shockwave that caused everthing in sight to rattle and shake, threatening to tear alloy plating from hinges and yank bones from sockets. Hoshi held on for dear life. Everybody else followed her example.

And then, miraculously, _Enterprise _was away, soaring smoothly up into open space with only a long superficial scratch to blemish her sleek silver shell.

* * *

Rigid with shock, Grievous managed to restrain another convulsive coughing fit long enough to watch the tail-end of the enemy vessel soar upwards and out of sight. 

"Sir," said the ship's droid commander in a monotone, swiveling in his seat, "I think we might have underestimated our opponents. The target is moving out of weapons' range."

"Thank you for sharing your opinion," said Grievous nastily, drawing a lightsaber from beneath his cloak and promptly beheading the annoying droid with his buzzing green blade. Sparks spewing from its severed neck, the elongated head tumbled to a stop at the feet of another lanky droid, whom Grievous addressed with dark hospitaility.

"You have been promoted. Take a seat, Commander."

As the new commander droid timidly pushed aside the headless remains of his predecessor and took his place, Grievous turned to his tactical holo-display, eyeing a miniature 3-D mockup of the _Enterprise _like a ravenous wolf.

"Now bring us about and follow that ship," he spat with venom. "I want Archer's head on a stake."

* * *

Captain Archer closed his eyes, released the breath he'd been holding for a full minute, then stood, giving Travis's shoulder a comradely shake. "Good work. I knew you had it in you." 

"That makes one of us," said Travis, who, like everyone else in the room, looked amazed to be alive.

"We are not in the clear yet," said T'Pol. "The enemy vessel is altering its course and will soon be in pursuit …"

Archer had expected as much. Time to implement Stage 2 of his ingenious plan. He pointed dead ahead. "Fly that way. Warp 5. Try not to hit stuff."

"Brilliant, sir," said Malcolm, straight-faced. "Columbus had nothing on you."

"I know what I'm doing, thanks very much. And remind me to dock your wages for a month if we survive, Lieutenant."

"I'll try, sir," said Malcolm, off the cuff. "I make no promises."

"Sub-commander, how long before they're breathing down our necks again?"

"Not long, Captain. A few minutes at most."

"_Damn it_, we need more time." Running out of options, he turned to the Jedi, who had somehow managed to survive the turbulance without a scratch. "Is there a way to slow Grievous down?"

Obi-Wan shook his head ruefully. "Not from here."

R2-D2, knocked over by the _Enterprise_'s earlier acrobatics, was lying on his side and mewling in distress, his processor-status light flashing erratically from green to red.

Hoisting the little droid back onto his stumpy legs, Anakin said, "We'd need to sabotage Grievous's hyperdrive. And to do that, we'd have to get onto his ship without him noticing. I don't see how—"

"The _transporter_," T'Pol interjected.

"Transporter?" said Obi-Wan, unfamiliar with the term.

"It's a relatively new mode of transportation," T'Pol explained quickly. "By breaking down a person's molecular structure into its base components, and then reassembling them at a predetermined destination, we can travel vast distances instantaneously."

Obi-Wan gave an impressed nod, hoping Anakin understood better than he did.

T'Pol looked at the captain, a modicum of hope brightening her stoic expression. "Analysis of the _Invisible Hand_ reveals no teleportation countermeasures in effect. It appears that this is one area in which our technology is superior to theirs. It would be wise to capitalize on this weakness."

Archer only needed a moment to mull things over. "Let's do it. I'll lead the away team." Then to the two Jedi, he said, "Which of you has the most engineering experience?"

"That'd be me," said Anakin, stepping forward.

Obi-Wan crossed his arms, slightly affronted. "Anakin, do you have so little regard for my technical abilities that the question isn't even up for debate?"

"Fine," said Anakin indulgently. "How exactly do _you_ plan on disabling Grievous's hyperdrive, Master?"

Obi-Wan thought about it, then at length said, "Yes, perhaps it's best if you accompany the captain. I've decided to remain here."

"If you insist," Anakin grinned, turning back to Archer. "We should bring Artoo along as well. He's disabled more obnoxious hardware than a Corellian HoloNet hacker."

Taking Anakin's recommendation on faith, Archer said, "It's settled then. Hoshi, contact Trip. Tell him to meet us in the transporter room right away –"

"Yes, sir."

"– Sub-commander, you have the bridge."

Malcolm couldn't help but smile as he watched R2-D2 follow his human companions into the turbolift. "Trip is going to be ecstatic."


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

The four-man away team – which included Anakin Skywalker, Charles Tucker, R2-D2 and Jonathan Archer – materialized silently aboard the _Invisible Hand _in a haze of shimmering, glittery-blue molecular fusion.

Anakin brushed dust from his dark tunic, surreptitiously checking that all his limbs were still intact. "That wasn't so bad. But I think I'll stick to flying in future."

"A few months ago, I woulda said exactly the same thing," said Trip, who was coping admirably with his droid-phobia by keeping his gaze above waist-height at all times and determinedly pretending that R2-D2 didn't actually exist.

The chief engineer pivoted on the spot, craning his neck to absorb his new surroundings.

"Wow, not too shabby," he said with an impressed whistle. "High ceilings, wide corridors – we should ask this _Grievous _character if he's hirin', Cap'n."

"Let's make that our contingency plan," said Archer, turning hastily to face Anakin. He didn't want to remain here a moment longer than he had to. "Which way to the engine room?"

"Artoo, locate the ship's hyperdrive," said Anakin to his mechanical sidekick.

R2-D2 obediently crossed to a nearby control terminal and effortlessly hacked into its system's data-stream, emitting an encouraging _beep _soon after.

"He says its five floors down," Anakin told Archer and Trip, unhooking his lightsaber from his belt and activating the blue blade. "He thinks he can override the locking mechanism –"

"Show off," Trip muttered.

"– but the security breach will attract unwanted attention from battle droids in the area," Anakin finished gloomily.

"Battle droids?" said Trip, suddenly all ears. "Y'mean like …" He nodded vaguely in R2's direction.

"No, Artoo is an astromech droid. Battle droids carry blasters."

"Y'hear that, Cap'n?" said Trip in a tone of mock fascination. "_Battle _droids carry _blasters_. Neat, huh? Artoo-Defunct here is a playschool droid."

While Artoo hooted his annoyance, Captain Archer said, "We've got no choice, Trip. Time is against us. Do it, Artoo."

The upshot of R2-D2's tampering became apparent right away. Wailing alarm sirens rapidly obliterated the foreboding silence.

With a cocky twirl of his lightsaber, Anakin smiled. "So much for the _stealth _approach. This kind of irresponsible behavior would make Obi-Wan very grumpy." He set off at a brisk jog. "This way. Try to keep up."

* * *

The atmosphere aboard _Enterprise_ was akin to that of a graveyard on a rainy day in winter. But, regardless, Obi-Wan Kenobi was starting to feel right at home. 

"Grievous's ship is back in weapons' range," he said, looking up from T'Pol's vacated science station. "Anakin and the captain arrived safely onboard, but I'm afraid if they don't hurry they won't have a ship to return to."

T'Pol, who was pacing distractedly by the captain's chair, gave the Jedi a puzzled stare. "When did you learn to read our instruments?"

Obi-Wan smiled modestly. "Different galaxy, same old boring statistical readouts. I am a general back home, you know. Don't look so shocked."

"Sub-commander, the new DX-9 weapons upgrades are active," Malcolm chipped in. "Should I initiate a full tactical alert?"

"Affirmative, Lieutenant."

"There's another thing …"

"Yes?"

"It's just that, well …" Malcolm glanced worriedly at the faces of his colleagues, including Obi-Wan, who couldn't help but feel strangely pleased to have been accepted as part of the group.

"Maybe we should think about changing our heading," Reed continued. "We've just crossed the threshold into restricted Klingon territory, and I doubt the Empire will roll out the red carpet."

"Captain Archer insisted that we proceed in this direction," said T'Pol cooly. "So that's what we're going to do."

"It's your call, sir," said Malcolm dutifully, his face betraying his misgivings.

Obi-Wan couldn't contain his curiosity. "_Klingon territory_?"

T'Pol's tone of voice was grim. "To use your own terminology, Master Kenobi, they're not the nicest people you'll ever meet. And they don't tend to take kindly to uninvited visitors."

* * *

Archer and Trip were having a tough time keeping pace with their Jedi guide. A true instrument of the Force, Anakin moved with a speed and agility that Archer had never witnessed, displaying a singular lack of fatigue that bordered on the supernatural. 

By contrast, Archer was already beginning to feel as though the arteries in his legs had been injected with liquid lead.

"Almost there," said Anakin, as if reading the captain's mind.

They came to a narrow, dimly lit intersection. But as they began to turn the next corner, Anakin flung out his arm like a barrier, drawing them back into the shadows.

"_Droideka,_" he said sharply.

The word sounded completely alien to Archer, but he knew that whatever it was, it must be bad: the Jedi weren't easily intimidated. Back flattened ninja-like to the wall, he stole a glimpse into the conjoining corridor.

Twenty meters along the vast walkway stood a huge metal door that resembled a bank vault.

Forming a barricade in front of the door were seven insectile, armor-plated monstrosities. Their crabby legs supported grotesque, beetle-like upper bodies, and instead of hands, their arms ended in dangerous-looking twin laser cannons.

"Destroyer droids," said Anakin. "Stay back."

"Are destroyer droids better or worse than battle droids?" said Trip sourly. "Because there are so many different makes and models, I'm starin' to lose track."

But before Anakin could reply, Archer cut in: "Can you take them out?"

"Obi-Wan and I could," said Anakin, who looked ashamed to admit his own shortcomings, "but alone it might take a while. And I won't be able to protect the rest of you. _Droideka _are no pushovers."

"Then let's try something else." Archer drew his phase pistol. "You three stay here. I'll try to distract them. If I can lead them away from the entrance, you'll have a clear run. Take out their warp drive and then get off the ship as fast as you can. Don't wait for me."

"No, Cap'n!" said Trip. "If anyone should be bait, it's Artoo."

R2-D2 rotated his dome in Trip's direction and made a noise that sounded uncannily like a death threat.

Trip valiantly pressed his case. "I mean, they're his kinda people. If he can't outrun– _outroll_ 'em, he can make chitchat. I don't want anythin' to happen to the little guy, but it's a risk I'm willin' to take."

Howling angrily, R2-D2 drove over Trip's foot.

_"_Ow!_ You little son of a_ –"

"I'm _doing_ it, Trip," said Archer, as Trip reached for his phaser. "There's no time to argue."

"But, sir. Look at those things, even Anakin doesn't want anythin' to do with 'em. It's suicide."

"Only if I get caught."

Trip opened his mouth to object again, but too late ...

Archer dashed into the corridor, coming to a halt directly in the droidekas' sightline.

"Hey!" he shouted, then to emphasize his intentions, leveled his phase pistol and unleashed a powerful beam of orange particle energy at the nearest robotic sentinel.

A web of crackling blue electricity gamboled across the afflicted droid's carapace. When it dissipated, the vengeful machine shuffled into formation beside its bad-tempered brethren, hoisting its blaster cannons.

Now Archer had their undivided attention, he turned and began to sprint in the opposite direction, moving as fast as his aching muscles would allow. Hyphens of scarlet laser-fire streamed past him, but fortunately nothing came close enough to connect.

* * *

From their covert vantage point, Anakin and Trip watched as the fearsome droideka curled into balls and raced noisily after their prey, rocketing forwards at close to eighty kilometers an hour. 

"Your captain is a brave man," said Anakin.

"Yeah, well … there's a difference between courage and bein' downright crazy," said Trip anxiously. "The Cap'n's always been borderline. I hope to God he knows what he's doin'."

"Come on, let's move. The path's clear." Lightsaber angled toward the ground, Anakin ducked out of cover.

* * *

Jonathan Archer had absolutely _no idea _what he was doing – or where he was going. He didn't even dare look back. 

From somewhere behind him, the ominous rumble of rolling metallic hellions echoed in his ears, growing louder with every pulse-pounding stride, every new and endless corridor. He could sense death's horsemen approaching like a chill wind on his bare neck.

He pumped his arms, trying to coax more speed from his trembling legs. Sweating profusely, panting like a rabid dog, he barreled headlong through automatic doors and vast rooms packed with colorless electrical terminals that swam by like a great dizzying blur in his peripheral vision. All sense of time and direction had deserted him. All that mattered was survival.

Fighting for breath, he cursed his own stupidity: "This has got to be … the worst decision I've made … in the last twenty minutes …"

Then, suddenly, he had nowhere left to run. He found himself trapped inside a cylindrical cage of transparent yellow energy that was originating from somewhere in the alloy rafters overhead. Some kind of particle ray shield. He was trapped. A human rat in a cage, soon to be surrounded by baying mechanical felines.

Drained of all energy, he doubled over, resting his hands on his knees. His distraction had worked, but he was about to pay the ultimate price for his success.

Moments later, the pack of pursuing destroyer droids caught up to him. Smoothly untangling their curled limbs, they surrounded the cage, tightening the noose, blasters raised, personal shields activated.

Jon knew he had reached the end of the line. There would be no escaping this time. His luck had finally deserted him. He could only hope that his friends aboard _Enterprise _managed to avoid an equally grim fate.


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

The engine room of the _Invisible Hand_ resembled an enormous steel cathedral. Far below the domed ceiling, a vast maze of humming and hissing machinery cast sinister, spiky shadows upon the gleaming walls and floor.

Anakin Skywalker and Trip Tucker were all too aware that assassins could be lurking anywhere in the labyrinth of craggy alloy gears, or spying on them from the narrow walkways high overhead.

Trip held his phase pistol in a secure double-handed grip. Anxious yet vigilant, he stayed as close as possible to the comforting blue halo of Anakin's lightsaber. Hunched over to reduce visibility, the pair of them moved quickly but cautiously toward their destination, the noisy equipment around them helpfully drowning out the sound of their footsteps.

The hyperdrive itself stood in the center of a vast clearing in the middle of the room. Cylindrical in shape, it looked like a huge jet engine cut in half and resting on its side. The semi-circular plasma coils at each end shone a brilliant shade of orange.

Four spindly battle droids equipped with blaster rifles stood guard beside it.

Crouching behind a giant moving cog, Trip whispered, "Guards! If we go back the way we came and follow the freon cooling pipes around the perimeter of the room, we might be able to sneak up behind 'em. _Hey, where're you—"_

But Anakin had already revealed himself to the enemy.

A powerful Force-push turned two of the unsuspecting droids into scrap metal before their microchip brains could react. Stunned into action, the two remaining droids managed to raise their blasters and fire. Anakin cooly deflected the laser bolts back at his attackers with three quick, graceful strokes of his lightsaber, and they crumbled to the ground like broken puppets.

Trip peeked around the corner. "Yeah, that'll work too …"

Anakin's lightsaber came in handy again a minute later. Using its blade like a saw, he carved away a very solid-looking panel from the hyperdrive's sleek alloy casing.

Anakin gestured to the newly exposed meter-square window of naked circuitry. While R2-D2 stood guard, Trip moved in for a closer look.

"These are radioactive conductor cells," Anakin explained with haste, pointing them out to Trip. "Don't remove them until they cool. To deactivate the hyperdrive, we need to reverse the flux-particle relays sustaining the main generator. _Yellow_ earth-wire, _green _earth-wire …" He indicated both in turn. "Be sure not to overlap them until I'm ready to do the same at the second terminal; a short-circuit could cause an explosion. After that—"

"Sorry, but …" Trying not to seem pushy, Trip moved nearer to the exposed circuit panel. "Wouldn't it be safer just to reroute the primer cable – which I assume is _this_ – directly into the particle-flow regulation port? Assuming there's an inbuilt proton-decelerator – or somethin' similar – nothing should overload. Safe 'n' sound ... or near enough."

Taken aback, Anakin smiled, his serious eyes sparkling for the first time since he'd demonstrated his Force abilities to Captain Archer.

"I think you're right," he said. "That's the first time somebody's given me technical advice since I left Watto's junkshop on Tatooine. Well ... Master Obi-Wan _tries_. Frequently," he added in a long-suffering tone. "I don't like to hurt his feelings."

Trip shrugged. "Well, we Earth folk have never been all that great at throwin' things around with our minds or fightin' with laser swords. Leaves a lot of spare time to tinker with engines an' such."

Back to business, Anakin pointed out three tiny switches. "Next, deactivate these backup fail-safes – here, here and here – in that order. That should do the trick. You take care of this terminal, I'll take the one on the opposite side. Understand?"

"Crystal clear."

Anakin frowned.

"Native expression," said Trip. "Means 'yep'."

"All right, let's—"

At that moment, R2-D2 gave an earsplitting yelp of warning. Looking up, Anakin understood why.

Hot on Artoo's tail was a veritable legion of battle droids and droideka, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. They must have been camouflaged in the mountains of surrounding machinery, waiting for the perfect time to strike. An ambush!

Adopting an aggressive combat stance and a loose-fingered grip, Anakin spun the hilt of his saber twice to get a feel for the weapon, and then angled the shimmering blue blade downwards over his right shoulder.

"Artoo, take my place," said Anakin, his eyes never leaving the battle droids as they formed a semi-circular attack formation. "Trip, tell Artoo what I just told you. Hurry! I'm not sure how long I'll be able to hold them off."

Trip's shoulders sagged. "Aw, you've gotta be kiddin' me …"

As Anakin somersaulted into battle like a man possessed, his lightsaber a spinning tornado of _hissing, crackling, fizzing_ destruction, Trip fought an internal battle of his own.

After a brief pause, the blond engineer let go of his pride and took a knee beside Artoo.

"Okay, let's get something straight," he said to the droid. "You don't like me, and I sure as heck don't like you, but we're gonna have to put our differences on hold if we're gonna – _Ow!_ _What did y'do that for!_"

Trip shook his electrified hand. R2-D2 razzed aggressively.

Beheading a droid with a vicious backhand, Anakin shouted: "He says you're wasting time!"

Trip clenched his jaw to suppress a tirade of droid-related swear words. Then, reminding himself what was at stake, he waved his hand, politely inviting Artoo to take a look at the exposed circuit board.

"Right, listen up … Don't make me repeat myself."

* * *

Aboard _Enterprise_, Hoshi Sato had some discouraging news to share with the rest of the crew. 

"We've lost the captain's transporter signature. Which either means he's in a shielded area of the ship, or he's …"

Hoshi couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. She didn't have to. The mere insinuation that Jonathan Archer might never return seemed to suck all oxygen from the surrounding atmosphere.

"Is there anything we can do?" asked T'Pol.

"I … I don't know …" Hoshi looked lost. "If he tried to reach us on his communicator … the additional frequency data _might_ help us to narrow-down the parameters of a transporter lock … But if he can't _reach_ his communicator …" She trailed off.

Malcolm's contribution to the conversation did nothing to raise morale. "A fleet of Klingon Birds of Prey is moving to intercept."

"We're being hailed," said Hoshi.

T'Pol took a breath to steady her resolve, then said, "On screen."

The grizzled, muscular, battled-scarred Klingon captain was irate.

"What is the meaning of this unforgivable violation!" he raged, his thick gray-black beard trembling with every word her spat. "Interstellar treaty strictly forbids any Starfleet vessel from encroaching on Klingon space without _expressed permission_ from a prominent member of the High Council!"

"If you'll allow me to explain the gravity of our—"

"For what purpose are you escorting this alien warship into our domain! Is this Xindi technology? A conspiracy to overthrow the Empire? You humans and Vulcans preach interspecies co-operation, but these are your true colors!"

"It's not how it appears," said T'Pol. 'The alien vessel is—"

"Turn your ships around right now!" Then, in a low, growling voice far more intimidating than anything he'd said so far, he added, "You will _not_ get a second warning."

Just then, one of the hawk-like Klingon ships nose-dived from formation and fired a photon torpedo into _Enterprise'_s starboard side.

Once again the entire universe seemed to shake. T'Pol clutched the back of Archer's command chair to prevent herself from falling. Electricity crackled across the surface of several control terminals. Luckily, nobody aboard the bridge was seriously injured. Just bumps and bruises.

Malcolm professionally blanked out the chaos around him. "There's a hull breach on D deck. We're venting atmosphere. And two of our antimatter injectors are in danger of overheating. That was one corker of a warning shot." He gave T'Pol a deeply concerned glance. "I have a target lock. Permission to return fire?"

"No. Not yet …" The floodgates of T'Pol's ice-cool composure were beginning to crack. With the barest undercurrent of fear in her voice, she said, "Captain, if you would just hear our side of the story …"

The Klingon warlord puffed out his chest and laughed mirthlessly. "I'm sure your lies would be most entertaining, but our ultimatum is final. The next attack _will _destroy you."

Thus far, Obi-Wan Kenobi had watched events unfold from the sidelines, hoping for a natural resolution that didn't involve the ship he was on being blasted into oblivion. Because this desired outcome was looking less and less likely by the second, he opted to intervene.

Obi-Wan, now wearing his sand-colored tunic and knee-high brown boots, strolled into the middle of the room and smiled pleasantly at the cantankerous Klingon.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," he said. "I'm quite well versed in the art of negotiation."

Lowering her voice, T'Pol said, "Master Kenobi, I don't see how—"

"I insist," said Obi-Wan kindly.

The robust Klingon captain almost looked amused as the dapper Jedi turned to face him, feet together, hands clapsed behind his back as though he were a courtly messenger from another dimension – which, of course, he was.

Malcolm also seemed to have serious doubts about Obi-Wan's chances of winning the Klingons over. They had as much respect for good manners and etiquette as they did for personal hygiene.

"Good luck," Reed said skeptically to Obi-Wan.

A savvy smile passed fleetingly across the Jedi Master's bearded face as he pivoted at the waist to glance at Macolm, who narrowed his eyes shrewdly. Something fishy was afoot.

"In my experience," said Obi-Wan calmly, "there's no such thing as luck."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: Unlike the other chapters in this story, this one is 4,000 words long. Just a friendly warning if you wonder why boredom is starting to set in half-way through. Hopefully that won't happen.

* * *

**

**10**

Jonathan Archer was amazed to be alive. Yet he suspected that death would be preferable to the vile fate he knew Grievous would have in store for him.

Archer's droid captors had escorted him to a detention cell that was straight out of a sci-fi horror movie. Completely circular, like the arena of a futuristic coliseum, the room was as large as the mess hall on _Enterprise_ and about as comfortable as a homeless shelter in Hell. The entire surface of the ceiling shone with dazzling white light, which made it impossible for a prisoner to rest his eyes. Hundreds of elaborately wrought steel spikes protruded from the curved walls, their wickedly hooked blades a stark reminder that extreme suffering was not merely a product of advanced alien weaponry. Dark bloodstains formed morbid patterns upon the cold metal floor. It appeared that Grievous's reputation as a sadist was well-founded.

A transparent red force field divided the circular room into two clear halves. Unfortunately, Archer's side of the room didn't have an exit door, but perhaps that would've been too much to ask.

Beyond the force-field wall, two broad-chested, humanoid droids brandishing long electric staffs flanked the door. Archer had the impression they were Grievous's elite guards. The captain had actually tried to speak to them a couple of times, but skilled warriors or not, their conversational prowess – or lack thereof – made R2-D2 seem like a sixteenth century poet.

On a low equipment trolley near the guards sat Archer's confiscated possessions: his phase pistol and hand-held communicator, the latter of which seemed to be mocking him.

He suspected the thick walls of his cell were in some way preventing _Enterprise _from beaming him to safety. If he could just reach his communicator, there was a slim chance that the transporter would be able to isolate his bio-signature …

His key to freedom was mere meters out of reach. But taking into account the force field and the robotic chuckle twins watching over him, it might as well have been on a distant planet. The whole situation was maddening!

Just when Archer was considering making fun of the droids' mothers for the sheer hell of it, slow, heavy, clanking metallic footfalls sounded from the cell's connecting corridor.

Archer stopped pacing and glanced up, his fingers curling into fists, his heart pounding despite himself. This was it. There would be no further reprieves, no more quick let-offs. He felt like an inmate on death row waiting to be lead to the slaughter.

General Grievous was so tall that he had to stoop to avoid banging his armored skull as he strode boldly into the bright detention chamber.

"Captain Archer," he said in his harsh, drawn-out rasp of a voice. "How nice of your to drop by. What do you think of your … accommodation?"

He chuckled at his own weak joke. It sounded like a car engine struggling to start.

"I've seen better," said Archer, casually appraising his surroundings. "It's a bit uncomfortable, I have to admit. A plasma-screen TV, a leather recliner and a fridge wouldn't go amiss."

Grievous stopped laughing and drew closer to the force field. "I am glad to see your spirits are still high. It will make breaking you all the more entertaining." He put a strong accent on every syllable of the word "en-ter-tain-ing".

Archer's instinct was to back away, but he didn't. Instead, he said, "I can feel myself starting to crack already. Just listening to you speak is like torture."

It was one gag too many. Grievous narrowed his watery yellow eyes until they were knife-like slits in the holes of his facemask.

"Insolent slime," he snarled. He spun to one of his elite guards. "Deactivate the force field."

Without hesitation, the obedient drone moved to a flashing control panel, which was set into an area of the wall where there were no jagged spikes. He keyed in a password that Archer could not see. The room-length red barrier flickered for a moment before dissolving completely.

Now there was nothing to separate Archer from the exit, the communicator he so desperately yearned to reach – or Grievous.

For half a heartbeat, freedom beckoned – but Archer's hopes were suddenly and painfully crushed, along with his nose, when Grievous lashed out with a violent forearm uppercut. The attack was so powerful that it sent Archer staggering five feet back into his cell, where his knees gave way, blood trickling over his upper lip as he sank to the ground.

Feeling as though he'd gone ten rounds with a world champion boxer, Archer wiped the blood away, looked at it, then hauled himself back to his feet. He gave his head a shake to banish the strange ringing in his ears.

"Is that the best you can do?" he taunted. "My grandmother hits harder."

The monstrous cyborg's wrath was fierce. Massive claws curled into deadly cudgels, he went to work on the captain like an interstellar prizefighter, punching and kicking with maniacal glee. Archer tried to fight back, but his brave efforts were futile in the extreme. Flesh and bone were no match for armor-plated alloy.

Grievous stoutly blocked or brazenly ignored every listless punch directed his way. Archer felt like a child fighting a fully-grown man. Summoning all the strength he had left, he made a lurch for Grievous's protective metal chest-plates, trying to tear them apart with his bare hands to get to the live beating heart within. Enraged, Grievous pinned Archer's arms to his sides and heaved him ten feet through the air, where he skidded to a stop inches shy of the barbed wall, a bloody, beaten pulp.

As Archer lay still, his breathing labored and his eyes swollen, he stared up at the bright lights overhead, wondering if he was halfway to heaven. But the acidic pain attacking every cubic centimeter of his battered body seemed to rule out that cheery notion.

In his delirium, something Obi-Wan had told him earlier came floating back to him on the delicate currents of his subconscious …

_Once you can sense the Force flowing through you, around you … your environment will reveal itself in far greater detail than your other five senses ever could combined._

The unexpected memory triggered the smallest spark of hope in Archer's mind. His body may have been broken, but his will – his resolve – compelled him not to quit. And where there was a will, there was a way. It was a cliché, but one that had always rung true with Jon.

Calling on every ounce of strength he had left, Archer rolled over and pushed up onto his hands and knees. Even hoisting his head to look at Grievous was an almost impossible challenge. It seemed to weigh a ton, and his neck muscles were on fire.

When his vision cleared, he saw that Grievous was lazily removing one of four lightsabers from the hip-harness beneath his cloak. The green blade made a noise like a high-pitched laser blast as it was activated, glowing evilly a couple of feet in front of Archer's bloody, sweat-streaked face.

Towering over him, Grievous's voice was pure venom. "You were a fool to challenge me, Captain. I am not accustomed to losing."

* * *

Aboard _Enterprise,_ Obi-Wan positioned himself before the bridge's wall-sized viewscreen. 

Nostrils flared, the Klingon captain stared down at the Jedi as if he were something slimy and unpleasant stuck to the sole of his boot. The captain was clearly a strong-willed individual, but Obi-Wan had earned his status a Jedi _Master_ for good reason. It would work in his favor that the Order's reputation didn't precede him in this galaxy. The Klingon would not suspect trickery.

"Greetings, Captain. My name is –"

"– irrelevant!" the Klingon countered. "This conversation is over!"

"Wow, he's good," Reed whispered sarcastically to Travis.

Pretending he hadn't heard, Obi-Wan discretely waved the fingers of his right hand through the air and made a second attempt at civil discourse.

"This conversation is _not _over," he said firmly. "On the contrary, you are extremely interested in everything I have to say."

The Klingon looked furious – then angry – then slightly confused.

"Yes …" he said, on closer consideration. "Perhaps you're not as ridiculous as you look. I _am_ extremely interested in what you have to say."

Obi-Wan would have preferred not to be insulted again, but at least he was making progress.

"We are not your enemy," he continued, repeating the discrete hand motion. "We are your good friends and you would never wish to attack us."

"Yes, you are good friends." The Klingon looked unsure as to why he hadn't realized it earlier. It was so obvious. "We would never attack you. Never."

"Did I miss something?" said Malcolm, possibly wondering if he'd blacked out and failed to hear a chunk of the conversation.

"If you did, I missed it, too," said Travis, looking equally bemused.

"Now, you must believe everything Sub-commander T'Pol says to you," Obi-Wan was saying. "After all, she is a remarkably trustworthy young woman. Sub-commander?"

T'Pol, who looked as baffled as the rest by the Klingon's sudden agreeability, took a few seconds to respond. Turning to the viewscreen, she said, "Captain, the alien ship which trailed us into your territory is not our ally. Its goal is to destroy us, a task it is more than capable of accomplishing. We would appreciate it if—"

"I believe you," the Klingon interrupted, nodding attentively. "You seem very trustwor—"

"Yes, yes. That's quite enough, thank you," said Obi-Wan impatiently.

Mystified, T'Pol tried again. "We would appreciate it if you allowed us to proceed unharmed. By remaining stationary we are inviting disaster."

As T'Pol spoke, Obi-Wan leant his elbow on Malcolm's workstation. "How well armed _is_ this Klingon fleet?" he asked quietly.

"Exceedingly," said Malcolm despondently. "It's a full garrison. Close to thirty vessels, all shielded, some with cloaking devices, and enough photon torpedoes to render _Enterprise _officially extinct."

Obi-Wan smiled, running his fingers through his wavy auburn hair. "Excellent."

Malcolm's black eyebrows met in the middle. "No, not _excellent_. Bad. Perhaps you misunderstood."

"No, I understand perfectly, thank you, Lieutenant," said Obi-Wan, waving him off, then returning to T'Pol's side in the middle of the room.

"Excuse me, Captain. I have request to make," he said.

The Klingon now wore a perpetual scowl, the ridges on his forehead like deep gashes of malcontent, as though he knew something shifty was going on, but couldn't quite place what it was.

"The Empire does not take _requests_ from cowardly Startfleet _p'tak_ such as yourself," he barked at Obi-Wan, "… but – but you are our good friends, so … so I suppose …"

Obi-Wan called strongly on the Force now, making yet another passing motion with his hand as he said, "Yes, and to protect your good friends, you would like to launch a full-scale attack against the enemy ship that is trying to destroy us."

Travis sat up so straight, and his eyes grew so wide that he looked like a meerkat poking his head out of a burrow. Hoshi's hand slipped off her control console. Blushing furiously, she righted herself and started fiddling with her silky black hair. The request was so far fetched … None of them had ever heard anything like it.

Even the Klingon seemed to have finally cottoned on. He leapt from his seat and pounded his chest with a clenched fist, the epitome of warrior pride.

"I … I am a son of the _Klingon _Empire!" he bellowed.

Reed sighed, his head drooping. It had been a good try.

"I do not follow your orders, human! And I certainly do not take directives from _Starfleet! _I will launch a full-scale attack against the enemy ship that is trying to destroy you whether you like it or not! Is that clear?"

Obi-Wan afforded the crew a self-satisfied smile, then, with a small bow, re-addressed the Klingon in a polite and deferential tone. "You are a brave and wise leader, Captain. We shall humbly observe your decision."

The transmission went dead.

As though he suspected his data might be faulty, Malcolm said, "The Klingon warships are moving away. They're heading straight toward the _Invisible Hand_, cloaks and shields raised."

The collective sense of relief didn't last long.

"Master Kenobi," said T'Pol. "Captain Archer, Commander Tucker and Jedi Skywalker are still aboard the general's ship."

Obi-Wan wasn't unduly worried. "I doubt they'll be in any serious danger if they return quickly. Meanwhile, the Klingons should provide a useful distraction."

"How did you do that?" Travis asked Obi-Wan abruptly. "Some kind of telepathy?"

Obi-Wan adopted a guileless expression. "My, my, no. Good manners go a long way."

* * *

"How's it goin' over there!" yelled Trip Tucker over the constant wail of surrounding blaster bolts. 

R2-D2's tootled response came from somewhere on the opposite side of the hyperdrive structure. They couldn't see each other, yet they had to somehow work in tandem; otherwise, one of several backup generators would kick in, making their efforts worthless.

"Great," said Trip, who might as well have been speaking to a brick wall. He didn't understand a thing the droid was saying. "Glad to hear it. Tell me when you're ready to deactivate the fail-safe switches. We have to do it at exactly the same time."

R2-D2 emitted a sequence of notes like a broken keyboard.

"Fantastic," said Trip, feeling his temperature rise. "Now if you're ready to start talking _English_, I might not have a nervous breakdown over here! All this computer talk is fryin' my brain! You sound like a demented budgie!Can't you beep once for 'yes' and twice for 'no' or something? If you hadn't noticed, we're gettin' shot at!"

Artoo made a single clear bleep that lasted three seconds. A "yes".

"Good, that's better. I'm gettin' tired of talkin' to myself," Trip grumbled, going back to work on his circuit board. "What am I, a mental case?"

Artoo produced another singular beep, this time lasting five seconds.

"Ah, ha – very funny … so you're a comedian now? And don't make another noise until you're done. I'm nearly finished."

R2-D2 beeped a third time. Just once. For seven very disgruntled seconds.

Trip glanced up, surprised. "What, you're done already?"

This time Artoo's high-pitched beep went on and on and on until Trip shouted tetchily, "Right, I get the point! Just give me a few seconds, okay! I'm gettin' there!" Then, to himself, he muttered, "I really hate that droid."

* * *

Anakin was beginning to tire. An avalanche of severed metal limbs and crackling, twitching droid torsos crunched under foot as he dove and flipped, ducked and parried, thrusted, sliced, kicked and slashed … 

A one-man wrecking machine, but just one man nonetheless.

The droids' reinforcements seemed endless. Each time Anakin's flashing blue blade separated a head from a neck, a blaster arm from a shoulder joint, another two fully assembled droids would appear to take the place of those he had turned to scrap. The harder he resisted, the faster his opponents seemed to multiply.

His arms were aching and he needed to rest, but he couldn't, wouldn't … not while his friends were in danger.

Only by giving himself completely to the Force would he be able to survive, emerge victorious. If he stopped to think, to assess his tactics, to take a breath, he was dead.

Defend, react, attack – defend, react, attack –

This simple chain of cognitive commands had become his whole world. The clanking and grinding machines of the engine room were mere hallucinations. Only the enemy was real.

To his left, a droideka unfurled its spindly limbs while Anakin was busy deflecting laser blasts coming from the opposite direction. With no alternative, he released his left hand from the hilt of his sword, calling on his rage as he snapped his fist closed in the droid's direction. The Force-crush was a forbidden Dark Side technique, but a potent one. The destroyer's broken limbs seemed to screech in pain as they folded in on themselves, leaving the droid permanently paralyzed.

One down, only a dozen, a hundred, a thousand more to go …

* * *

"Okay, I'm done!" shouted Trip. "Deactivate the fail-safes on three! One – two –" 

Artoo yowled.

"What's wrong?" yelled Trip.

When no response was forthcoming, Trip raced around to R2-D2's side of the hyperdrive, ducking the occasional blaster bolt that Anakin was unable to deflect.

Thrusters ablaze, the little droid was hovering five feet off the ground like a mini rocket-cum-hovercraft. A rake-thin battle droid dangled from Artoo's squat torso, trying to drag him back to earth.

Trip leveled his phaser, took careful aim and fired. The beam drilled a molten hole right through the battle droid's chest, and he stumbled sideways into a huge gear-shaft that crushed him like a recycled tin can.

"Are you all right?" said Trip as Artoo landed with a bump.

The droid bleeped once for 'yes'.

"Damn," said the chief engineer with a roguish grin. "I need to work on my aim."

Crouched low, hands over his head, he sprinted back to own circuit board. "Okay on three, then … One – two – three!"

For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Trip worried they'd made a miscalculation somewhere – but suddenly, the shrill whine of the hyperdrive began to decrease rapidly in pitch and volume, and the orange coils at either end faded to black.

"Yeh-ha!" cried Trip. "Good work, Artoo. Now let's get the hell out of here before Grievous realizes we've castrated his thousand-meter-long substitute for masculinity."

Tucker dipped his hand into the pocket of his jumpsuit and retrieved his communicator. Time to call home and arrange a ride.

* * *

Anakin, Trip and R2-D2 re-materialized on the transporter platform moments later. Anakin's long blond hair was dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his robes torn, singed and frayed in various places. 

"Is the Cap'n back yet?" Trip asked the young female technician on transporter duty.

She shook her head forlornly. "No, Commander. I'm afraid we lost all contact with him thirty minutes ago."

Trip could only stare at her in disbelief, the news sapping all joy out of their mission's success. Jonathan Archer couldn't be dead. He was the heart and soul of the ship. And nothing could survive without a heartbeat – not even _Enterprise._

* * *

Grievous wrapped a giant, taloned hand around Jonathan Archer's throat, and in an act of pure brute strength, lifted the battered captain clean off the ground so that his feet hovered in mid-air. 

"Any last requests, Captain?" Grievous mocked, preparing to run Archer through with the lightsaber in his other hand.

"Yeah," gasped Archer, his face turning blue through lack of oxygen. "Surrender now … and I won't have to … kick your ass again …"

The general's scornful laugher became a wheezing cough. Tightening his grip to stop Archer wriggling, the cyborg butcher drew back his blade for the final killing plunge …

But then, at that very moment—

"_General_!"blared the panic-stricken voice of a droid over the ship's intercom. "_We are under attack from a fleet of unidentified ships._"

Momentarily caught in two minds, Grievous decided to release his vice-like grip on Archer's throat. He wanted to savor the look in the human's eyes as the lifeblood drained out of him. The captain collapsed to the ground on one knee, gasping and rubbing his neck.

Grievous snatched a small com-link from his belt and paced away from Archer, deeper into the detention cell. His elite guards would watch over him, ensuring the feeble human caused no problems. Besides, he was half-dead.

"Intensify shields," Grievous instructed his droid commander. "Return fire. I will return to the bridge shortly."

"_Sir, our shields are not holding. There are too many enemy fighters; their weapons are more advanced than the human vessel's. We're taking heavy damage._"

As Archer stubbornly dragged himself to his feet, a sudden salvo of torpedoes caused the whole interior of the ship to shudder and quake.

Grievous growled his displeasure at this latest unthinkable turn of events. In a violent temper tantrum, he snapped one of the jagged blades from the cell wall and flung it to the ground.

"Very well … go to lightspeed!" he roared. "We will return for the Jedi when I have devised a counter-strategy!"

The droid sounded suddenly terrified. "_The, er … hyperdrive is not responding, sir. I … I don't understand it. We've done everything we can, but …_"

It was then, as Grievous spun around in a vengeful rage, that Archer took action. Keeping his swollen eyes closed against the light, he cleared his mind of all thought, all fear, all doubt – he focused only on the small cylindrical object dangling from Grievous's belt – and, astonishingly, through the Force it came to him, whipping through the air and settling into his waiting two-handed grasp as easily as if he performed miracles on a daily basis …

Archer's thumb found the correct switch; the resulting _buzz_ as the lightsaber's neon-blue blade flared to life sounded like a gunshot in the stunned silence.

Grievous's elite guards where on him in a flash, but Archer was ready for them; reinvigorated, he turned, swinging the saber like a baseball bat and cleaving the head of the first clean off his stocky shoulders. The second guard brought his pulse-tipped staff down with such vigor that it would have crushed Archer's skull into bone-dust – but Archer was not there. He had rolled to the left, eluding death by a narrower margin than he dared contemplate.

The droid, possibly confused by Archer's unorthodox dueling style, took a full nanosecond to adapt. It was all Archer needed. As he rose, he slashed up, severing the droid's weapon-arm at the shoulder joint. The amputated limb clanged to the floor with a hiss of scolded metal. His bright green eyes ablaze, Archer thrust his lightsaber straight through the droid's chest; then, leaving the weapon lodged in place so that it roasted his adversary's internal motors, Archer kicked out with the heel of his right boot. The afflicted droid staggered back into the spiked wall, impaling itself. Live electricity flared from every joint and flames burst from its eyeholes. The tang of burning oil was caustic, but to Archer it smelled as sweet as freshly mown grass.

"Shock" was too weak a word to describe the bland disbelief in General Grievous's eyes. Not only was the human Force-sensitive, but he had just demolished two droids who had killed many fully qualified Jedi. _Impossible!_

Producing a second lightsaber, Grievous roared like a wild rancor and charged headlong at Archer—

With no time to spare, no time to think, Archer snatched his phase pistol off the equipment trolley, took aim at the control panel on the wall and fired. It was a crazy gamble, but it paid off.

The room's giant red force-field shimmered back into existence.

At full speed, Grievous crashed into it like a sixteen-wheeler hitting a brick wall, his raised arms absorbing the brunt of the collision. Quickly regaining his footing, he rammed the force field with his shoulder, swatted it with his lightsabers. Bright bursts of light flared like mini solar explosions at the point of each strike. But nothing worked. The captor had become a captive in his own prison cell.

Every muscle in his body trembling, Archer grabbed his communicator. "Archer to _Enterprise._"

The silence seemed to last a lifetime. When it finally came, Hoshi's voice sounded like glorious harp music.

"_Captain, you're alive!_"

"Just about," said Archer, wincing as he touched his bruised jaw and glancing at Grievous, who was still hammering the force field like a lunatic in an asylum. "Can you get a transporter lock?"

"_I can now, sir,_" Hoshi half-laughed, half-sobbed in relief.

As Klingon cannon-fire rocked the walls around him and strident sirens wailed from afar, Archer lowered his communicator, staring at Grievous for what he hoped would be the last time.

Grievous had given up trying to escape. Drawing painful, abrasive gasps like an exhausted rhinoceros, he managed to focus on the insufferable human who had somehow bested him.

"By the way, General …" said Archer, "I'm not accustomed to losing, either."

Then, staring his conquered foe right between the eyes, he raised his communicator and said, "Energize."

As another thunderous volley of Klingon missiles shook the ship, smashing the bright lights overhead and plunging Grievous into darkness, Jonathan Archer vanished.


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

Lieutenant Reed was delighted to have an opportunity to finally test out his new weapons upgrades. Now that several of Grievous's shields had been rendered useless by the Klingon attack, Malcolm's pinpoint laser-guided torpedoes made short, dramatically explosive work of the _Invisible Hand_'s aft command tower. The resulting debris and carnage brought a dreamy smile to the armory officer's face.

"I've been waiting to do that all week," he said, as though he'd just spent a romantic evening with the love of his life. Captain Archer, who refused to have his injuries treated until they were out of harm's way, found Reed's customary reaction to blowing things up both strange and amusing in equal measure.

Despite Malcolm's half-hearted protests, they didn't hang around long enough to enjoy the rest of the show. The leader of the Klingon armada was bound to be upset once he realized Obi-Wan had manipulated him, and having seen quite enough conflict for one day, Captain Archer made a command decision to put as many light-years as possible between _Enterprise_ and the battle now raging in Klingon space.

Three days later, _Enterprise _had returned to neutral space, but the captain had yet to return to the bridge. Battered and bruised, but eager to resume active duty, he had spent most of the last seventy-two hours constantly nagging Doctor Phlox to discharge him from sickbay. So far he had been unsuccessful, despite repeated, if hollow, threats to maim Phlox's pet animals when the Denobulan's back was turned if he didn't give him the all clear.

Early on the fourth day of Archer's recuperation, the doctor was still keeping a beady eye on him, when the arrival of an unexpected visitor forced the captain to postpone his ingenious escape plan – namely, run for the door, warp five, try not to hit stuff. Well, it hadn't failed him yet.

"I thought I'd come and check up on you," said Obi-Wan, moving to the bunk where Archer was sitting, dressed in a pair of loose pants and a sleeveless white vest. "Given your reasons for defying Grievous, I can't help but feel party responsible for your condition."

Archer rotated his neck to loosen the muscles, then, smiling, said, "_Partly_?"

Obi-Wan grinned. "Well, you will be glad to know that we will cease to be a burden on your crew for much longer. Commander Tucker informs me that our starfighters are very nearly flightworthy. He and Anakin have become quite a team when it comes to tinkering with broken gaskets and so forth. It almost seems a shame to separate them."

Archer hesitated, then said, "You know you're both welcome to stay on _Enterprise _as long as you like. There's no rush. T'Pol expects the temporal vortex that brought you here won't close for another couple of months at least."

"Thank you, Captain, but—"

"_Jon_. Call me Jon. I think we're past being formal with one another."

Obi-Wan graciously inclined his head. "Jon … But we really must report back to the Jedi Temple. I have a seat on the Council. I'd hate to be replaced." His clear blue eyes narrowed as he smiled again. "And I know there's a special someone Anakin would like to catch up with, too. Not that he'd admit it …"

"Well, my offer stands," said Archer. "If you're ever in the neighborhood, feel free to call by."

Obi-Wan began to leave, but turned back before he reached the door. "Oh, before I forget … I heard about your extraordinary exploits aboard the _Invisible Hand;_ I've decided to give you a small parting gift. What the Temple Masters don't know, shouldn't cause them undue stress."

Obi-Wan deftly extracted a small sapphire jewel from inside a fold of his baggy robe, and handed it to the captain.

"Thanks," said Archer, holding it up to the light. "What is it?"

"A focusing crystal," said Obi-Wan. "Jedi use them to construct their lightsabers. You really did miss your calling. I took the time to dictate further instructions on how to build one to your armory officer. He … seemed very keen to hear what I had to say."

Archer shook his head, stifling a smirk. "That doesn't surprise me. It's a good job you've only given me _one_ of these" – he rolled the crystal between his fingers – "or in a few months, everybody in Starfleet would've been running around with something called a _Reed_saber."

* * *

Most of the bridge crew congregated in Shuttle Bay 2 early the following day to say farewell to the Jedi.

Charles Tucker, his overalls covered in grease, emerged from beneath one of the wedge-shaped Jedi starfighters and joined the rest.

"Well, they're refueled and ready to go," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "So I guess this is it."

Obi-Wan addressed the whole group. "Anakin and I would like thank you all once again for everything you've done for us. The Republic owes you a great debt."

"We won't forget it," Anakin thought to add.

"Pleasure workin' with you, Skywalker," said Trip, shaking the young Jedi's hand. "You've given me a lot to think about as regards modifyin' these 'ere shuttle pods."

R2-D2 trilled and beeped contritely, revolving his blue dome.

"Artoo says he's sorry for all the trouble he's caused you," Anakin relayed to Trip. "He's been missing the company of a certain protocol droid back home."

Trip looked as though he was about to make some kind of snarky retort, but thought better of it, and smiled tolerantly. "Ah, don't worry about it. I think the little guy and I are finally startin' to see eye to eye. We just got our wires crossed early on."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Trip," said Archer, beaming, "because Artoo has elected to remain onboard for a few weeks to study our behavior. You being the chief engineer, I thought he might be most at home in your quarters."

Trip went so quiet and pale that a casual observer might have thought he'd suffered a spontaneous stroke. Mouth open, he stared, dumbfounded, at Archer, who managed to keep his face straight until T'Pol decided to ease Trip's torment.

"I believe the captain is deceiving you for comic effect," she whispered, leaning toward him.

Jon, Malcolm, Hoshi, Travis, Obi-Wan and Anakin all burst out laughing.

"That ain't funny, Cap'n," said Trip seriously, as Archer wiped a tear from his eye.

Once the frivolity had subsided somewhat, Jon shook both Jedi's hands.

"Have a safe journey," he said sincerely.

"And the same to you," said Obi-Wan. "Space is a big place. One never knows where he'll end up next. All we can do is go boldly into the fray."

"I couldn't agree more," said Archer.

Obi-Wan turned to T'Pol, who still seemed oddly flustered by the directness of his gaze. The Jedi found himself wondering just how much the poison from Sasha-Kinn's virus gun had actually influenced her actions earlier. Through the Force, he sensed a great deal of emotional conflict behind the pokerfaced façade she presented to the world at large.

He decided it would be best not pry.

Instead, Obi-Wan raised the palm of his right hand and formed a V shape by separating his fingers.

"Live long and prosper," he said kindly.

T'Pol came as close as she ever did to cracking a grin, and Obi-Wan was sure he saw a trace of color rise in her cheeks. Then again, perhaps it was his imagination playing tricks.

"You've been doing your homework, I see," said T'Pol eventually.

Obi-Wan smiled, sighed – and then decided it was time to leave.

"Come along, Anakin," he said, strolling toward his starfighter at a leisurely pace. "There's a mug of jarva juice at Dexter's Diner with my name on it."

Anakin frowned as he climbed the ladder up to his cockpit. "I was hoping to pay Padme a visit first, Master."

Settling into his own cockpit and strapping himself in, Obi-Wan gave a canny chuckle. "Yes, I'm sure Senator Amidala will be thrilled to know her number one advocate is still alive."

Powering up his internal systems, Anakin countered, "It isn't like that, Master. We're just good friends."

"Yes, good friends indeed. I don't doubt it, Anakin," said Obi-Wan, as Trip used a magnetic crane device to carefully insert R2-D2 into the wing-socket of Anakin's ship.

Thanking Trip with a wave, Anakin quickly closed his viewport hatch to stifle Obi-Wan's not-so-subtle allusions about his love life, and then taxied toward the shuttle-bay doors.

Before Obi-Wan could follow suit, however, Jonathan Archer stepped forward. In a loud, clear voice, he said, "Obi-Wan. May the Force be with you."

Obi-Wan turned in his seat and smiled down at him. "I'd say the same to you, Jon. But apparently, it already is. Take care, my friend."

And with that, the _Enterprise_ crew retreated to an air-tight observation room, where all they could do was watch quietly as their two mysterious guests took flight, soaring directly into the turbulent blue vortex that would return them to a galaxy far, far away.

THE END

* * *

**Author's note: Well, that's it. I hope everybody enjoyed it. If you persisted all the way to the end, I'd greatly appreciate a comment to tell me what you thought. It might not be as good as money (damn that J.K. Rowling!) but it'd make me very happy nonetheless. **

**A special thanks goes out to all my regular reviewers. You know who you are. Thanks for inspiring me to complete the first story I've ever written that actually has a plot. Take care. **


End file.
